


Of Roads Less Travelled

by mhs0501



Series: Genderbent Hunchback Of Notre Dame [1]
Category: The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996)
Genre: Battle, Canon Genderbending, Everyone's Genderbent, F/M, Gen, Genderbent Disney, God this sounds so dark that's not really my intention okay it kind of is, Migration, Orphans, Other, Painful Situations, Past Relationship(s), Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Permanent Injury, Prequel, Underage Prostitution, i think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 21:59:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9680789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhs0501/pseuds/mhs0501
Summary: A gypsy boy and a soldier girl, their stories untold. How did a young gypsy from the eastern half of Europe make his way to Paris, France? And how did a young girl enlist and survive the brutality of the army? Who did they lose and what did they give up to find their place in history? This prequel covers the pasts of Esmerald and Phoebe from my previous story! I hope you like it!





	1. Chapter 1

**Esmerald, Age 4  
**

_He was a gypsy, the child of a spinner and a missionary that didn't even want him. This religion had touched him far more than anything else in this world. He was a gypsy. He was an atheist. There was danger to it in a Christian world but Esmerald had long ago given up his faith in some imaginary quick fix. The hard realities of life had taught him to believe otherwise…_

Esmerald looked around the winter scene which covered the tiny town, a thin blanket of snow covering the small manors and clusters of sandy stone row houses. He tightened the ragged blue cloak around his tiny shoulders, fluttering snow dampening his growing raven bush from where he sat on the edge of the rail which overlooked a deep ravine and separated them from the rest of the town which had a name his near toothless mouth and uneducated mind simply couldn't produce. He looked down the steep cliffside and wondered for a brief moment if it was worth going back to dropping pebbles and watching them gradually disappear into the icy depths of the flowing stream with a nearly inaudible sound. He'd already ran through the small cash he'd collected by picking at the frozen mud, dirt blackening his growing nails. His mother had told him to stay put while she went to the well, leaving him in charge of their horse, Pica, until she returned, and telling him if any strangers passed by, to untie their steed from the tiny dormant pear tree and hide with him.

He cast a weary glance back at the content beast, shivering as a sharpened, icy breeze gusted past him, forcing him to dig his feet into the edges of dirt and grass which was just enough space to support the short wall he sat upon, a simple nudge keeping him from falling to what surely would've been a cold and miserable death.

Suddenly realizing the chances of such an incident occurring with his less than acquired balancing skills, little Esmerald pulled himself back from the wall, needles shooting through the bottoms of his blackened feet in near horrified anticipation. No amount of risk was worth feeling that wind, no matter how much more alive it might've made him feel at first. His poor mother would've more than likely had a heart attack if she'd seen him that close to the edge.

Annoyed he'd let judgement get the better of him, the small boy meandered around in the snow, the icy crystals burning into his numb feet as he walked up to Pica, petting the gentle steeds muzzle and relishing the warm puffs of breath which kept his bare hands at a reasonable temperature despite the cold world around him. He'd contemplated mounting him and at least keeping his little feet from the wet, hypothermic conditions of the ground, but seeing the large beast already intimidated him, as it did when Pica would bray in irritation and shake his body like a wet canine, shaking the shimmering snowdrops off of his speckled body. He wasn't about to climb on top of something easily three times his height unless his life depended on it, and so far the only direct threat he'd faced to his or his horses well being was a plague of irredeemable boredom.

Esmerald longed for his mother's companionship from the moment she promised she'd be back, lowering herself down to his height and pressing a kiss to his tawny forehead before giving him his instructions, taking a pail and a bucket, and leaving him with nothing but his imagination and a horse who unfortunately couldn't talk as his only company.

Being poor, his imagination was about as creative as he dared allow it to be. He would close his eyes and feel the warmth of their iron stove, the softness of a rug where a rug should've been in their tiny, one room home on the edge of a river. They lived not exactly in the middle of nowhere, though to a boy Esmerald's size it may as well have been with the nearest neighbors a squinting view away and the town nestled in the near canyon beneath them, not a rare sight in the mountains but pleasant enough in the winter and lovely in the summer when the stream was cold enough to wade in.

At least, back when he and his mother could afford the time off, when he could barely speak and was resigned to his own little world in the long green grass, sneezing when he accidentally inhaled a dandelion and mucking around the tiny stable Pica occupied. Back when his mother would leave for hours everyday and come home bearing a weary smile and whatever she could carry on their horse with her spinning wheel.

Back before she'd told him he needed to stay inside, told him he needed to be more cautious. When she had given him his first knife there was a cold sadness in her eyes he could read as she'd told him to only use it if he knew he needed to. When there came knocking at odd hours in the day, he ignored it and kept out of the conservatively clothed paler folk's line of sight as they peered in, curious and cautious as to who could own such a small house and yet never be seen within the town.

She'd chosen to put her past behind her for her son, a path which hadn't been easy and something little Esmerald had known for months before today. It wasn't hard to decipher the tongue of the people who knocked on the door, requesting that she come out only to realize that the tiny home's bare white walls were devoid of shadows or breath.

He'd thought about asking why before, but decided against it. Sure, it nagged him when she'd frown and refuse to smile despite his best intentions, and it annoyed him when she didn't feel up to storytelling after a long day of disappearing into nothingness and returning suddenly with food and the occasional treat with which their home would slowly gather a quaint feel to it.

It was only when she'd decided to take him to work with her that he realized exactly why he'd been sequestered to their house, learning to despise the color of the pasty plastered stone that lacked anything to break the monotony- not since she'd taken down her beautifully handwoven blanket because it attracted unwanted attention.

Where she worked was a splendid palace, as far was Esmerald was able to discern. The royal blue walls were patterned with a sense of gilded beauty that rarely he saw anywhere but his mother's fine crafts. The floors were a polished creamy stone that he could see his ragged reflection in, his perpetually cleaned face framed by soaked-looking raven locks. He'd longed to run through the halls admiring everything this strange place had that his tiny home didn't, but his mother's stern warnings and gentle arms kept him from fulfilling any of those desires.

The aesthetics were far less impressive in the kitchen and the wood lined back room where his mother would set her large treadle wheel from her back, leaning from her milk maidens stool, and let him watch the spinning motion as supple, worsted yarn steadily accumulated throughout the day.

He'd rock back and forth with intrigue as she would tell him funny tales and weave simple stories through years of experience. She was in the middle of explaining a tale of a giant who stole fires from the earth below for his own greedy purposes when the door had slammed open.

A regally dressed woman of decent standing towered in the doorway, her composure obviously lost from the withering glare she had as it settled on his mother, then on him.

"You," She hissed, storming towards the pair as his mother quickly released her hold on the bobbin, the wheel slamming to a loud stop as she looked ready to fall to the ground.

It took him a moment to realize she was looking at him, and he blanched. What was he doing wrong?

"Please, madame," He heard his mother force out, clearly not confident in her French as she wished she was. "My boy, he didn't do anything-" She was silenced by a menacing glare.

Her hateful gaze leveled on the small tawny child, who shared his mother's likeness in nearly every way. The narrowed darkness seemed to widen in cold, snappish surprise. "So _you're_ the little gutter rat my-" The words were suddenly muffled by his mother's calloused hands. The patrician snarled at his mother for rendering her jab ineffective.

"You do not tell him anything!" The child had never heard his usually still, collected parent use a tone of voice like that; not even when he'd broken his arm climbing a tree.

She scoffed, wrinkling her pointed nose and snapping her glare back to the small boy, beach blonde curls shaking with dissatisfaction like a serpent haired monster. "You dare talk back to me?" She snarled in an icy tone.

But his mother wasn't going to back down. She somehow knew what this unexpected visit was about. "You don't-" There was a jerk to his head as her hands recoiled in surprise, the veiny hand of the slightly older mistress ripped across her tawny cheek and nearly knocked her to the floor.

Esmerald felt panic shoot up his spine as there was a sudden blunt impact to the back of his skull. Completely off guard, he was knocked backwards, skull connecting with the back of the small stool and he felt a steady stream of blood at his upper lip, haziness to his vision as his mother cried something unintelligible and he was in her arms, sheltered as he came to his senses.

He wished he'd thought to use his knife then, and she hadn't been back to that house since then, at least not with him. That was the night he'd learned he was illegitimate to the world, in the stillness of their home as his mother nursed the bruised cheek and bloody nose.

"Why?" He'd cried after she'd cleaned the last of the blood away with a strongly smelling kerchief. "Why did she say that to you?"

With that Esmerald saw his mother's eyes slump to the ground, their deep brown glow darkening with a quiet feeling he couldn't recognize and wouldn't for years to come. "What did I do to deserve it?" She winced at that line.

"You did nothing, Esmerald. I promise, you did nothing wrong." His mother shook her head quickly, settling both hands on his shoulders where he stood and she kneeled on one knee.

"Then why?" He repeated. "Why did she hit me?"

There was a broken sigh. "Sometimes, my baby, the world isn't fair to people for things that they can't help." She could tell he was starting to hry, and hugged him close to her chest. "The best thing you can do is realize when that happens, and know that you need to stand up for it. Show them that they're wrong for doing so."

They'd been riding all morning since dawn towards her next job, spinning wheel still mounted to the back of her horse. She still wasn't back yet. Part of him wondered if he should take the horse and go looking for her. But, still not willing to be gone if she'd told him to stay put, he simply leaned against Pica's back leg softly despite the fact that he weighed less than thirty pounds soaking wet.

Then, suddenly, the stillness of the serene winter hillside was brutally shattered by a loud shriek, one that shook the young boy to his core and he instantly gripped the reins in one white knuckled fist as Pica reared his white head in bewilderment. It hardly sounded human, whatever it was.

There was a distinct rustling coming from the long, snow dusted fields of dry, prairie-like grass blades which were curled like wrought iron from drought and chills. Esmerald gripped the hilt of his knife from his pants pocket, the pain in his aching feet suddenly fueling a blazing fire of adrenaline with threatened to burn through his entire being. He took his stance in front of the slightly skittish horse, knowing if this wasn't something he could subdue, the slip knot in his other hand could be easily undone and they'd be off in a split. Lost, no doubt, but out of the way.

He tensed, other hand now drifting to soothe his horse. His toes dug into the slushy, icy dirt.

Then out waddled a white, bedraggled creature who instantly keeled over, it's fur was dampened by snow and it's eyes were unusual for a goat, being full, round pupils instead of inexpressive inky black bricks. It was tiny, knobby white legs shaking in the air from exhaustion, it's little pink tongue lolled out and panting softly.

Little Esmerald glared weakly at the creature, holding next to no sympathy for getting him worked up. But within a moment the anger had faded, and he found himself peering over the long grass, listening for the sound of footsteps or calling. The goat most likely belonged to someone, and although they could easily take the small creature as their own, he wasn't about to steal someone else's property, even if it meant more companionship than Pica or even fresh milk.

The thought crossing his mind, he walked up and examined the little goat further. The obvious anatomy labeled him a billy, and the small, comically stubby bumps at the tips of his forehead showed the coming signs of horns. He could also see the lines of his ribs and the knobby bones in his knees and legs. He looked almost emaciated and it was clear he was still quite young.

It was a sad sight for his cold stung eyes as the thing still panted heavily. Esmerald felt a twinge of compassion and against his better judgement he removed the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped the shivering, panting mess within it's course, but warm embrace.

"Hang in there little guy." He picked up the limp billy and sat sat to Pica as he sniffled the boy's new companion with great curiosity, no longer anxious in the slightest.

He was white as the snow which blanketed the ground in a thin sheet, still damp as if he'd swam through a ravine, and out of steam as if he'd ran for miles. There was a hint of scruffy black at his muzzle which threatened to climb up to his forehead with the coming years, and at the black tips of his leathery ears, a small hole was punched through the right one.

Letting out a weary sigh as he cradled the poor thing close, he found himself humming an old hymn his mother would sing him to sleep with.

He sat there for a good ten minutes before the sound of footsteps suddenly pounded through the grass the soft layer of snow atop it sifting to the ground. He quickly whirled around and saw the shadow of someone who clearly wasn't his mother. Esmerald's green eyes widened as the baby goat let out a concerned bleat that he quickly understood. His eyes darted between the storming man and Pica. There was no way he could hope to mount that horse and carry him at the same time, much less ride off.

Then he felt teeth on his ragged sleeve as his free arm was tugged. His attention momentarily captured, the little goat jerked his head towards the stone wall several times. Considering his options, he grinned slyly, grateful for the idea. Holding the creature tight to his chest, he ran towards the wall and hopped it, transferring the cloak to be bunched up in one fist as he ducked out of sight, black bottomed feet digging into the short edge. One hand looped around the top of the wall, the bundled goat being hoisted over the ravine just barely for the crouched child to maintain balance. The creature bleated anxiously as Esmerald shushed him. He took one last look over the wall before the rotund man burst through the grass, panting similarly to that of his goat. The small boy immediately ducked and prayed through the pounding of his heart that he wouldn't see his fingers from the edge. Deciding it wasn't worth the risk, He slowly crawled the only thing keeping him anchored to the edge back to a jutting stone, hoping to high heaven that it could hold him and the goat long enough.

"Just don't look down," He whispered meekly to both himself and the goat as the man's beady eyes leveled on Pica. He heard the horse whinny in skepticism and he tried not to groan as he realized the man was perfectly fine with stealing an unattended horse. His mother would kill him for this.

The man released a disgusting chuckle. "I was looking for a stupid goat, but you'll definitely do." He could hear the reins being untied and was just about ready to get up and stop him before another voice rang out.

"What do you think you are doing!?" His mother shouted as she dropped one of the pails of well water and the footsteps suggested she was confronting him.

"Watch it lady!" The man yelped as the sound of splashing water could be heard from his position.

Then there was an impact, a hand slapping a face as Esmerald recoiled, fearing the worst, but his mother's angry voice quickly disproved his thoughts. "What did you do to my son!?"

"Look, I ain't seen no kid around here gypsy!" The man hastily defended himself, his tone shivering like his body.

There was a growl. "And now you are here to steal my horse? Get out of here!" She shouted, a blunt impact following as it seemed like she hit him with her empty bucket. "Run away before I get the other pail and make you sorry!"

The sound of a body hitting the ground and then scampering as it appeared the man had run off, and Esmerald peeked over the wall just to make sure. He could see the terror in her eyes resurfacing as her anger floated calmly away. Before she could call his name, he'd slung the goat over the wall and climbed over with him, deep breaths shaking his little chest as he slid down the bumpy stones, his legs like jelly from being so close to the edge of the deep ravine. His mother instantly was on him, wrapping her son in her arms as he was forced to let the bundle unfurl and the little goat hobbled out, still weak and lightheaded from the extensive motion and cramped conditions of his hiding place.

His mother stared blankly at the small thing with her deep brown eyes, curiosity clear on his young features as she looked between her son and the billy. His face went red. "We had to hide from him. He was gonna take him away." He gestured to the bewildered goat who sat immediately, either dizzy or attentive or quiet possibly both.

"Well," She tempted, looking down at him. "Does he have a name?"

"Not that I know of." He shook his head. "Can we keep him, Mom?"

A brief moment of consideration passed over the woman's features as she nodded yes. "Only if you can take care of him."

"I promise I will." Esmerald nodded wholeheartedly as she set him down and he hugged the goat, who, despite still being a bit disoriented, licked his cheek with a sandpapery tongue, before running over to the spilled pail and lapping up the water before it had a chance to freeze and leave him dehydrated.

"We don't really know where he came from," Esmerald kind of lied, knowing the owner had passed by and knowing the conditions couldn't have been good.

His mother watched the goat lap up the precious water like he'd never seen so much in his life. "Poor thing. He doesn't look too good right now." She lamented. "How about Djali?" She suddenly suggested. Esmerald paused.

The name meant origin, or lack thereof. They'd just found him- it seemed as good a name as any. He nodded as the oat finished his drink, instantly darting for the dry grass and burping loudly. Esmerald looked at the goat as he'd had his fill, sitting next to the little boy and licking him again.

"Well, Djali?" He tired out the name as it rolled off of his tongue with slight difficulty. "You ready to keep going?" The goat didn't let a beat pass before bleating excitedly, jumping into his new owners arms.

That was all the response he needed.

* * *

**Phoebe, Age 3  
**

_The young captain had been to the masses every Sunday and the occasional Christmas feast when she but but knee high, and little appeared to have changed in the near two decades of her absence. She removed her golden helmet, as the invisible words of worshippers reminded her to do so. It was one of the few places that offered comfort to the young woman, to know that in the silence and equality of the church, she was not in a position of power..._

There was a brilliant flash of orange and yellow. And that was the last thing Phoebe could remember.

She'd awoken in a bed which wasn't hers and easily three times her own size, and clutched the covers with horror in the darkened room, the light of many candles glowing within the cracks of the aged wooden door. She bit her tongue and whimpered as her arm moved. A tight bandage was wrapped around the length of her forearm and down to her wrist, her right hand unscathed. Her toes pressed into the rug and then the floorboards, creaking as she dragged the quilt with her like a hideously flowered cape. At her unimposing height, she stared up at the gilded golden handle of the door. Wherever she was, it certainly was a place nicer than her own.

For a moment, she paused, eyes scanning the smaller bedroom which seemed to be slightly less scary than what she'd awoken to. Through a small window she could even see the light of another apartment in the darkness of the night's sky. Assessing the situation the best she could, the three year old toddler smooshed her thumb into her mouth, sucking on it for a moment in an attempt to calm herself down. How much time had passed?

The thought which had entered her mind upon her regaining consciousness flashed through her head once more. She looked between the bed and the doorknob. Suddenly, her brown eyes widened as an agonizing scream tore through the apartment and she instantly dropped to the ground like a lifeless marionette, terrified of whatever demon had infiltrated her new resting place. Tucking herself into a ball, she bit back a wail and held her tears, fear bubbling through her stomach as if whatever had made such a horrific noise would devour the first thing which made so much as a peep.

It took her almost twenty minutes to pull herself together, and in that time more sounds infiltrated her safe space. It wasn't recognizable, but familiar in a sense. It sounded like her mother. And it sounded like crying, but the little child didn't understand any of what her situation had become. All she could really comprehend was that whatever was going on, she wanted to go home as soon as possible.

Then, another scream rattled her boiling blood, but it was nowhere near as loud as the first one, and quickly dissolved into a pathetic whimper. Realization panged through her. It was her father.

Swallowing her terror and fear of what lay beyond her quilted, dark cave, Phoebe reached for the doorknob with a tiny hand poking through a roll of the soft quilt, brushing the edge of the spherical object as even including her arms she was still shorter than it. It was hardly a blow to her confidence as much as it was to her fears. Determination worked through her as she propped herself up to her tippy toes and tried to clasp a her hand around the handle, pushing and jiggling the thing without a sure definition of what to do. Grunting in her tiny voice, she felt herself almost melt into the door as her balance swayed.

Finally, as another cry of pain rung in her ears, she managed to turn the knob and stumble out into a hallway, the door swinging open and creaking softly. In darkness she stumbled, dirty, bare feet catching on the occasional uneven board and the folds of her quilt, tripping her thrice and falling her once. Her breathing ragged and anxious, she followed the sounds down the massive cavernous hall with a still cold twinge to the air. Brown eyes widened as the sights and sounds of her world grew more apparent.

Finally, she reached the end of the long hall, and saw exactly what had brought her to this strange new place. Then, she wished she hadn't.

Her father was spread out on a dining table, naked, with her mother and two large men holding down both arms and his left leg. His right one dangled lifelessly, coppery blood pouring into a provided wash tin as a third man sawed through blackened flesh and bone. Though she was barely at the height of the table she could see every twisted nerve on her father's blond stubble. A mortified cry bubbled to her throat before she could stop it.

As she watched the gaping wound with fuzzy vision, she could feel each bead of sweat materialize on her face, every hair on her body shocked with an electric charge, every ounce of blood boil to her head. Through the corner of her vision she could she her mother rushing to her side and before she could throw up she was whisked her into her arms, her head instantly forced into the crook of her mother's shoulder to keep her from seeing anything more.

She felt to tears stain into her dress, the scent of lilac flooding her nostrils and blocking out the cruel world her father was still weathering. A large, willowy hand clapped over her ear as another agonized scream ripped free from her father's throat. The little girl swallowed the massive lump in her throat, squeezing her small eyes shut.

The door to her room was nudged open with her mother's hip, and closed the same way. A burst of cold September air made her shiver beneath the shaking sobs. She felt her mother sitting on the bed, cradling her smooth and shushing her sounds, free hand stroking her long blonde locks lovingly. Her bandaged wrist was sqiushed between their chests, and the sudden touch of pressure, despite it's gentle intention, made her pull away, tumbling back into the lumpy mattress as her mother paused and struck a match to the bedside candle, the room now illuminated in a golden single flame.

Then, her mother looked her over as Phoebe clutched the bandaged appendage, biting her lip as the pain came and went with her pulse, gradually going to a numb burn. She pulled herself together, her lungs relaxing while her mother watched tentatively. After a moment's pause, her mother scooted closer.

"I-" Her voice cracked. "I'm sorry you had to see Papa like that."

Phoebe snuggled close, burying her head in the crook of her shallow stomach. "What's going on?" She wailed softly into her dress.

"There was an accident sweety." There was genuine melancholy in her tone, and though her face was smushed in darkness, she could tell her parent was trying to hold whatever weak barriers she had left to keep from breaking down. "The forge…" She paused for a moment, as if she couldn't think of a word to describe it. "Papa had to get you out. He needed to make sure you were safe. He got hurt, really bad."

She peered up at her mother, brown eyes wide and soft with tears. "Those people… his leg…"

"It couldn't be saved." She closed her eyes and shook her head.

"Is he gonna die?"

Her mother felt her heart breaking as every node of fear stung her skin like a hornet. She trailed her index finger up her chin, pondering over what she could say next. "I hope not."

A small whimper escaped her lips as she leapt into her mother's arms, holding her close and burrowing her face into the soft creases of her dress. "What are we gonna do?" She could hear from the muffled mouth, spirit practically shattered like a prized mirror, silver shards stabbing at her heart.

"We're gonna wait right here." She nodded, suddenly clapping both hands around her daughter as another scream tore through the house. "Do you think you can sleep okay?" There was a sideways motion and a mumble into her apron.

Setting her head over her daughters and planting a kiss at the crown, she shifted her arms so she was cradled in her arms like she had been so many times before, the comforting warmth of her love awash in her rattled mind.

But through the soft sounds of an old Coventry coral she'd remembered from many sleepless nights, she could shake the image of her poor father, his gruesome injuries from her eyes even scrunched closed form the light of the candle. He'd saved her being on that table. He saved her.

"Momma?" She spoke in a tiny voice fitting to her literal size, half closed eyes gazing upwards. "It wasn't my fault, was it?"

"Of course not honey." Her mother grinned softly as her. "It was no one's fault. You shouldn't be worried about that."

"But why did it have to happen?" She whimpered as she was slowly rocked back and forth in her arms.

She could hear a huff and a sigh from the figure above. "Sometimes the lord has strange ways of working with us- but I promise everything will work out in the end."

"How do you know?" She yawned.

"Because it's best to have faith, honey. Without it, there's not much else we can hope for in this world. It can be used as a powerful tool in dark times." She seemed to lament, eyes drying. "But for now, I need you to do something else for me." Phoebe nodded weakly. "Just relax, close your eyes. You need to rest tonight, and bury your fears for the day. You can do that, right?"

"Yes, momma." She answered.

"Good." Her mother planted a kiss on her forehead, and set her down on the bed, pulling the dusty comforter up from the floor, giving it a whip, and tucking her under the warmth of the downy quilt. "Sleep well, my little soldier. We'll see you in the morning."

She snuggled into the pillow as the adult blew out the candle, crossed the room, and closed the door behind finally filling the apartment, the little girl was left to pleasant dreams despite whatever awaited her tomorrow.

She'd make her mother proud.


	2. Chapter 2

**Esmerald, Part 2**

 

There was a sense of hollowness that occupied his heart in the still silence of the covered wagon, his ears pounding after what felt like hours of released emotion. His silky raven locks dangled in his view as he sat lamely on the rug, arms and legs tucked in tight as if when he finally opened them up they would be torn from his as easily as the treasonous guards were drawn and quartered. That loss of control, the fear of it all-- it was enough to keep him grounded in his spot as he had been for almost the whole day.

 

There was a pungent scent of tobacco in the air as if the smoke still hung in the stale, dusty air. The relatively austere surroundings on his current home belied most of the colorful fantasies of his youth and of the others whom he’d seen running, singing, breaking free of his town’s rigid norms like the final bite which snapped the buckle of an unfortunately overweight aristocrat. The veritable explosion seemed to sweep the town like a plague and disappear all too soon within the span of a few days, and with it the colorful splashes remained here and there.

 

One such straggler who remained within the town despite such a thing not being in his best interests was an older man Izaak who’s covered home Esmerald currently was waiting in. He was a specimen in his early thirties, if he had to guess, of a decent height, previously alone and had a certain charm to his accent and general laugh, when such times could come. Esmerald knew he liked the man well enough and considering his current situation he was well in need of a benefactor or at least of someone who could provide a day or two’s worth of shelter before his period of impurity was over. He wished he had Djali around but Izaak had insisted on taking the goat with him to the marketplace after Esmerald made him swear up and down not to sell him or do anything worse, to which he rolled his eyes in agreement, as if he expected such behavior and attachment from someone he barely even knew.

 

Esmerald had previously despised such boredom and loneliness on the days his mother would leave him alone, he’d felt absolutely thrilled at the thought of receiving some sort of silence with which to gather his thoughts. Izaak it seemed also recognized such a fact and took the liberty of his time to stock up on supplies for the month as with a new guest the meager food he contented himself with would not suffice for a growing boy. 

 

And despite the warmth of his face from the tears and the coming of spring with cold slush still harbouring tiny glaciers which glided across the surface in helter skelter patterns, there was an unsettling chill deep in his bones as he rolled back onto the elegantly woven rug, savouring the one comforting smell in the world that was the one thing he’d been allowed to keep following the incident. 

 

Heaving a small sigh knowing he’d have to talk more with Izaak sooner or later he forced himself to stare at the blank pale orange of the arched ceiling, the shadows of bony branches casting lazy shadows across the canvas roof. He forced himself to weigh his options, and for a six year old the options were few and far in between at best. 

 

He had Djali and by legal definitions nobody would care much to follow Pica, yet he was still nowhere near the age or skill to ride a horse and he knew better than to try. He could simply leave the next morning and take a bag of grain for the road with the other man being none the wiser. 

 

He could also tell Izaak he was better off by himself and ask for something more without any extra weight on his young conscience, and it definitely seemed like a better option to take than the first, as the other gypsy was hardly deserving of being stolen from after giving him the luxury of the time to collect his thoughts when most who otherwise acted decent wouldn’t dare give him or any other street urchin the time of day. 

 

His last and final option was the try and figure something out with Izaak when he returned with his companion to make the final vote, but Esmerald was weary of such ideas, especially considering what he’d been forced to watch and witness at his age. 

 

The former two would leave him practically stranded in this town on the bare outskirts without any hope of survival unless someone else proved as charitable when that seemed about as likely as the village priest declaring there to be a snow day in July. But despite his kindness, Esmerald still wasn’t quite sure if he could trust his newfound benefactor yet, at least not entirely. That would have to wait until tonight and until then he had plenty of time to prepare an at least passing attempt at civility and hopefully avoid making any more one-sided enemies. This town was only so big.

 

There was a sudden turn of a lock and before he could prop himself up he was nearly trampled by Djali hopping onto his stomach with all four hooves after bounding into the wagon like a rampant firework. 

 

“It seems like somebody missed you, eh?” A tenor voice chuckled in a rich fashion. 

 

Nodding in near elation after squeezing the little goat in his small arms, the young boy turned his attention to the tawny skinned individual who stood in the frame of the floor, kicking his boots off mundanely while balancing a decently full basket in one arm, the key held firmly in the other. 

 

Esmerald stood himself up, the smile fading to a distant frown as suddenly as it had appeared and Djali walked over to a blanket he’d managed to tug from Izaak’s chest the night before and snuggled into it, clearly exhausted after walking some distance and his enthusiastic greeting. 

 

Noticing his falling gaze, the somewhat rotund gypsy strolled over to the table and set his basket down before turning to the small child, not breathing a word until he lowered himself to the boy’s height. “Still not talking?”

 

He shook his head despite really wanting to talk. At the moment the mood just didn’t strike him and Izaak didn’t seem to be impertinent that he receive any sort of verbal response though at his response there was a slight look of troublesome concern burrowed deep in his dark hazel eyes. 

 

“It’s okay.” He answered, still not clear on formalities as he nodded, not attaching some sort of affectionate pet name like ‘my boy’ or ‘darling’ to his response. Esmerald couldn’t have minded or cared less. “I know you’re still technically supposed to be fasting, but I’d say a day is the absolute most you’re going without and you’ve done more than enough to deserve a nicer meal.”

 

Still not eliciting a verbal answer, he turned back to the basket for a moment. “I hope you don’t mind pickled things and bread. It’s all I could get, it being a slow season for the farms and all.”

 

It did seem as though there was a certain weight to his statement as if he were on thin ice with someone half his size and a third of his weight, as if he were somehow the most influential or important person in the universe for that one moment in time.

 

So Esmerald did what he could to be helpful in soothing Izaak’s apparent guilt. “I don’t mind at all.” He said quietly.   

 

A small laugh left his slightly smug curved lips through his well trimmed beard. “I knew the period of mourning didn’t call for a vow of silence.” He murmured as he got a knife out with his cutting board.

 

Within the space of two hours, Esmerald was sitting on the other side of a tiny table that had appeared from the floor compartments as well as two pillows for sitting, the other things having been nicely set up for a man seemingly unconcerned with table manners as he ate with his fingers. It definitely seemed as though he was more than concerned with his hospitality than usual, considering the careful manner in which he glanced between the once again silent Esmerald and the cool, juicy pickled beet that he raised to his lips.

 

As he had practically expected, the young boy wasn’t fond of beets whatsoever, but didn’t desire to refuse a meal that was clearly some sort of chivalry test to Izaak, so he took one for each handful of the others including peppers and unfortunate looking sweet corn which all tasted like a straight jar of vinegar-- but he managed. Besides, as much as will and his mother’s passing told him to avoid food, his hunger easily overcame that previous desire and he’d eaten his half of the rough crusted loaf with a vigor that suggested he’d never been presented with so much from anyone before and in all honesty he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had enough to spare as much as half a loaf.

 

There was also mead which Esmerald refused to touch and Izaak hardly seemed to mind in this case, sparingly taking his mug with dinner without anything else to offer and the young boy wasn’t pressed to make any decisions. For the moment at least.

 

“How was the market?” He piped up from his silence as Izaak took a swing from his mug. 

 

“Rather well stocked today, considering the weather.” He remarked mundanely. “Lots of homegoods I won’t be wasting my gold on anytime soon.”

 

Esmerald looked slightly perplexed with his mouth open slightly, exposing the gap of a missing baby tooth that had been extracted the day prior. “Why not?”

 

In response he looked around the dimly lit caravan with it’s rather sparse furnishings. There were two chests up against the wall, his mother’s prized rug, and a shelf stuffed with books that looked ready to crumble to the dust which coated them. Other than that there was a washtub and and two buckets sitting turned over in the corner with bags stacked lazily atop the light orange tarp that had covered the roof in the daytime, the ceiling now consisting of wooden slats that Izaak had painstakingly crafted to weave together and stretch over the wagon in a similar manner to the tarp. 

 

“It’s not like there’s anyone else here.” He stated in a somewhat empty fashion. “Besides, it’s not like a man needs more than a roof over his head and a good meal to feel happy.”

 

He slowly nodded, unsure what else he could say. Izaak leaned back for a moment before his gaze moved from the wooden ceiling and landed on the boy. “So are you feeling any better?” He said as if he treaded on dangerously thin ice.

 

Esmerald looked down for a moment before shaking his head. “I’m tired.” He fibbed, knowing where this discussion was going.

 

Izaak nodded. “I agree. So let’s talk while you get to bed.” The young boy looked confused. “Someone once told me a wise man lays out his angst before resting, and don’t tell me you’re suddenly fine. You were certainly talkative last night in your sleep and from the way you’ve been acting I think it’d be best if you at least told me some things about yourself.” He took the boy’s full trencher and dumped it on his own before stacking the two and standing up.

 

“Do I have to?” There was a slight whistle from the gap in his tooth as Izaak scraped the remaining contents back to the jar from which they had come.  

“That depends.” He set the dishes aside next to a second empty washtub half the size of the first one. “If you want to have nightmares by all means do so… but try to keep them to yourself next time if you don’t mind? I’ve got to start work again tomorrow and my profession doesn’t exactly allow me to be sleeping on the job.”

 

It suddenly occurred to him that he’d never asked much of anything about his wagon mate before, much less his profession. Curiosity boiled within the young soul as he stood up and picked up the empty mug, walking it over to the wash tub and standing on his tiptoes to reach the lip.

 

“What’s the job?” He asked, his curiosity saturated eyes looking down into the tub for a moment before they focused on the taller of the two. A moment passed as it seemed the gears were turning in Izaac’s head. He bent down to Esmerald’s height, balancing his large, tawny hands on his knees. 

 

“I’ll make you a deal.” He smiled in an almost coy fashion. “You get into bed and for every question I ask you, you can ask me one. I’ll give you two passes.”

 

“Passes?” He looked bewildered.

 

“That means you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. So what do say? Deal?” He clarified. After a moment, Esmerald nodded, still nonverbal and looking very reserved.    

Sitting on the pallet Izaak pulled out from beneath the cabinet in the floor, he sat quietly whilst the other man did the dishes and left the boy to do what he wished for the moment. His luminescent green eyes found themselves resting on the bags in the corner, the nondescript burlap practically screaming intrigue as if their plain and unfortunate condition meant they had to have something important or exciting in them. However, he baited his eagerness for the moment and stayed put. The last thing he wanted to do was risk ruining whatever was in there and incurring his boarder’s contempt. 

 

As he walked up, wringing his hands on a cloth towel, Esmerald sat perfectly idle. Seeing his expression of wide eyed curiosity, the older man laughed softly before sitting cross legged on the other end of the pallet and removing a blue blanket from over the side of his shoulder. The patchwork quilt was a coarse wool, but it was comfortingly warm. 

 

“Alright, you look ready. I guess we should start here.” He concluded as Esmerald nodded, his bright eyes dulling as the enthusiasm that had briefly flashed through remained sealed behind thick, icy glass. “How old are you, Esmerald?”

 

There was a pause as his mouth opened. “Six.” He answered quietly. “How old are you?”

 

“Thirty three.” He broke into a wide smile as Esmerald stared, numbers calculating in his head. “Do you have any other family that you know about?” 

 

He shook his head after a brief pause, his eyes half lidded and mouth falling into a tiny frown. “Did you?”

 

“Not anymore.” He answered, acknowledging that he’d hit a nerve with a reserved stare. “What did your mother do for work?”

 

Flashes of her voice telling him stories at the wooden wheel infiltrated his memories. “She… she spun. Clothes, fabrics, whatever she could wherever she could.”

 

“My grandma used to do that.” He remarked as a still silence enveloped their conversation which he broke after watching the younger boy rock in his seat for a moment, the novelty of his movements charming. “What else do you remember about her?”

 

Esmerald’s head shifted downwards, avoiding direct eye contact above the pallet and the rainbow patchwork quilt. “She used to tell me stories when she came home. She also told me--” His glare intensified. “To stay inside, be careful.” Even though his face was turned away, he could tell he was getting emotional, his voice edging on tears. “She gave me this.” His hand closed around the tiny knife and removed it from his pocket. 

 

Izaac nodded, even though he had trouble keeping his eyes in his head when he saw the weapon wink at him through a crusty red, obviously having been used recently.

 

“Why did you help me?” The question was small and timid with a quivering tone and genuine fear as the tawny fingers clenched around the handle, not unlike how he’d been when the adult gypsy had found him two days prior.

 

It had been a brutal scene. There was a still body in the darkness of the alley, her tawny skin pale and lucid in the light from the inside of the tavern. Her swept raven locks were spread and in some spaces brutally sliced like the ribbon on her throat where her jugular exposed sticky red blood. The unfortunate manner of her dress was reason to suggest disgusting crimes that someone as young as Esmerald was far too young to understand or know about. 

 

He’d been against the wall, a tear at the seam of his white shirt’s sleeve where an open cut bled freely. His face was framed by shadows as Izaac had immediately dropped to his knees to inspect for signs of life from the woman but reconsidered when he noticed the damage. But the cobblestones which were dotted with what seemed to more than likely be foreign blood demonstrated either she or Esmerald at least had attempted to keep the spectacle from continuing as it did.

 

He’d been deathly quiet as the older man approached, face still and pale as a statues as he stared at the sudden appearance of someone else. He hadn’t even asked for his name or what had happened. He just couldn’t bear to witness such a brutal incident continue, even in the total and complete silence of its conclusion, or to let the child simply sit there and starve to death as he probably would have if he hadn’t been roused from his catatonic state by the sight of a hand extending out to him.

 

“Because I had to.” He answered. “Do you know use that knife?” It was less a question and more of a confirmation as his tone was laced with suspicion. From what he’d seen he didn’t know well. Esmerald blanched.   

 

“Pass.” Fair was fair. “Where are you from?” 

 

He bit his tongue. “Pass.”

 

The questions continued on without much resistance or tension from either of them for what felt like a good half an hour until the subject returned to familiar territory. 

 

“Why are you asking me about it?” He frowned at Izaak as he’d questioned him about the night he’d found him again. 

 

He frowned back for a moment, trying to compose his question in a manner that someone his age would likely understand. “Because what those people did to your mother, they could’ve done to you. Now I don’t know what you saw and part of me doesn’t want to, but I can read between the lines when I say I know that you tried to stop it. Is that true?”

 

There was a tentative breath from the child. “What if it is?”

 

Not wanting to appear threatening or anything of the sort when he clearly was looking for a way out, Izaak sighed as a saddening realization dawned on him. “Because I know how much the world can hurt those who stand up and fight. You might’ve had noble intentions,” He stood up from the other end of the pallet and walked over to the bags in the corner. “But unless you know how to stop them, there’s nothing you’ll do except get yourself killed. Fighting may be the only option sometimes, but before you learn how to take your guard with a dagger, you need to get out of your cell.” He untied the knot on the bag’s opening. “You wanted to know what’s in these bags?”

 

Esmerald slowly nodded, suddenly apprehensive at the thought of where this conversation was going. “You’re not teaching me to fight, are you?”

 

“Yes and no.” He replied removing a pouch from within the contents. “You also wanted to know what my job was?”

 

Again, Esmerald nodded. Casting the boy a confident smirk, he threw the pouch to the floor and instantly a massive cloud of red flashed across his form and Esmerald toppled back in surprise and horror as the smog quickly dissipated and he was nowhere to be found. 

 

Then suddenly, there was a quiet, familiar voice from behind where he lay as Djali suddenly pushed him to sit up and view Izaak, on the other side of the caravan, wearing a golden venetian carnival mask that had materialized seemingly from nowhere. “Trust me, Esmerald. Those god-fearing nimrods never underestimate the power of a good illusionist.”

 

Esmerald found himself sharing a look of consideration with Djali. Izaak noticed this and chuckled from behind the mask. “You’ll start tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

**Phoebe, Age 7**

 

The morning bells roused the short blonde from her bed as sunlight poured in through her small window, the first few sprigs of yearly rosemary peaking up slowly from underneath the freshly cleared and melted snow. Wandering over to the edge in her bare feet and nightgown, she could see the rattling carts and the sounds of morning greetings through the thin panes of slightly warped glass. Unlatching the window to check on her herbs, the tendrils were ice cold but a healthy shade of green. Seeing a few sprigs that looked promising, she quickly plucked them up and shut the window before the cold air could claim her.  

 

Sliding her way through the hallway and the simple keeping room that sufficed for a bit of everything, the still morning was measured not by the clock whose hand had stopped turning when she was nearly five, but by the toll of the bells that had awoken her. 

_ Three, Four... _

 

Under her breath she muttered each ring. For some reason the time had been completely accurate since she had learned to count. Beforehand her father had always grumbled in the forge on late nights about how time was never accurate at Notre Dame prior.  

 

Six chimes for the hour. Nothing more followed. There was a rumble from down below as something rattled in the forge’s chimney, a common occurrence what with the flocks of migratory pigeons in and around Paris. There wasn’t a response of swearing or anything verbal from the man who continually ran the forge, so it was safe to assume her father wasn’t up yet. 

 

Then there was a voice from the master bedroom only a stone’s throw away. Her mother didn’t sound very happy. 

 

_ “I’ve been working my ass off for this whole year trying to keep us and Phoebe fed and it’s never enough for you is it?”  _ There was a bitter tang of contempt in her father’s voice as it was low, either aware that their daughter was liable to listen in or just from the controlled rage. 

 

There was an ingenuine scoff.  _ “Says the lazy man who can’t be bothered to stop stumbling home late on his wooden leg that came from your daughter’s pocket.”  _ Her own voice seemed tired and jaded, as if she’d only just been snapped awake.

 

Phoebe held a level breath. This was hardly an uncommon occurrence nowadays. Her father shared her measured silence, as if he was somewhat floored by the accusation. 

 

_ “It was one time, Lucy…” _

 

_ “One time too many. You’re not going to lie to me Gunther. I know those late nights in the forge you claim to pull off aren’t you down there and if you perhaps paid more attention to your daughter you would think of a different charade.” _

 

Through the wall that she’d pressed up against she could almost hear her father’s eyes widening. She looked down at her own arm as she nervously tugged the powder blue sleeve, the beginnings of a blotched scar that had materialized years ago. It was no secret to anyone who saw them going at a trio through the town that the tiny family had lost something dear the night that the forge had inexplicably exploded. 

 

For her father the loss was rather clear. The stump where his right thigh ended and his femur grew cold and hollow was most of the time visually unclear to most who saw him standing upright. However, it was usually the dragging motion and nervous inexperience with wielding a foreign limb that was a dead ringer for his amputation. The nerves and control had been gone from the carved pinewood long before it had been fashioned into a suitable vessel for a man to move when otherwise such paralyzing injuries would’ve left him sequestered to a chair to slowly wither away in or simply navigate the rest of his days with a walker-- something he was never likely to do. Though Phoebe’s mother’s never cared to admit it, her daughter had certainly received his unshakable stubbornness in her boiling blood. the leg came a different feeling of usefulness. The accident which had cost him his leg and a considerable portion of his only daughter’s childhood had given him a shattered perspective on his role as a mentor to her. He’d watched her grow up into a fine young child from the edge of the keeping room stool and was practically relinquished to nanny whilst her mother disappeared to do Paris’s laundry and reappeared exhausted with a full basket in hand by three o'clock each day and more to do after. 

 

To her mother, whatever caring sense of emotions she’d held in her child’s youth were gradually crushed under the weight of keeping her family fed and clothed whilst dealing with her husband as best as she could. Though she was initially grateful that her dear husband had managed to survive with only one serious injury, the handicap and it’s costs were never an easy burden to bear alone. Despite the fact that they were able to obtain one that fit almost immediately afterwards convincing her headstrong husband to be slow and careful in her movements to avoid injuries was all but a death sentence to her own affairs before that evening where her life had narrowly avoided the cobweb encrusted future of spinsterhood. Though she and her family had weathered the storm the best they could there was no telling if such a future wouldn’t haunt her eventually with death looming it’s head all too often in her nightmares, knowing that death was within reach of all she held dear once before.

 

For herself, there was arguably the worst blow: a feeling of distance from both her parents when she knew she should’ve been awash in them. They hadn’t been very involved with her since the disaster that had seemingly ruined their livelihood when she was barely three years into the world. Once, she could expect a mundane life that consisted of daily meals with a touch of flare from her mother, awful jokes and a soot covered face from her father, and a general jubilance that would last until she spread her own wings and left her happy home. Reality had been all too happy to shatter those dreams and memories with every piece of arsenal it could spare. Even as a seven girl old year, she was smarter than either or her parents gave her credit for. Money was tight. Neither of them worked steady jobs with constant income anymore and the only thing Phoebe could bring herself to do was pray after a shallow bowl of stew that the lord would find a way to fix her eroding life, somehow, someway. 

 

After all, faith was a strong thing to hold within in dark times. Her mother had once taught her so. There had to be some merit to her long nights spent knelt in prayer, otherwise there were times she gladly would’ve been doing something more meaningful had her life not been so preoccupied. 

 

One of the things she’d desired for many years despite her parents growing disapproval was using the forge again. She’d always been told before the accident to exercise caution around the massive oven, and her not doing so that one time was easily chalked up to childhood curiosity, something she still felt guilt for even though her mother tried to assure her that it wasn’t her fault. With her father’s accident, he and her mother had been very forward with the idea of her never learning, but that regulation had withered from neglect as it became clear that her mother’s briefly started laundry business wasn’t going to cover both food and rent. Her father had caved and began tutoring Phoebe from his creaking chair in the forge, keeping her under careful supervision to avoid any other damage to the one thing they knew they couldn’t afford to lose. Since the age of five, she’d taken the role of apprentice-- welding the steel pliers to dip the molten hot steel into the stagnant bath of water and molding simple things like nuts and bolts. It was hardly glorifying for the young pupil, but she knew better than to ask for anything more challenging to someone who’d lost his leg and his spirit years prior. It was difficult enough to convince him to help her more than three times a week nowadays when it was becoming increasingly clear to all of them they needed a steady income and needed it soon.

 

Often left without his guidance, Phoebe knew better than to let her parents lack of involvement from keeping her going. This came at no real surprise to either of them, as she was a naturally hard working girl by nature, but this didn’t change her mother’s reaction the first time or the soreness of her rear end the second time. She’d managed to escape injury most of the time aside from the occasional spark burn and the work she created, while somewhat rudimentary, sold well, especially to the noblemen and churches which required almost constant replacement of their iron tools and steel weaponry. 

 

It was no secret to anyone who’d made deals with the young girl knew of her troubles, despite the calming gazes she left her customers with when metallic goods were exchanged. Phoebe herself had lost count of the times where she’d put out the furnace well past the midnight oil as she was well aware of the punishments for working alone.

 

Of course, her mother had long ago given up any major qualms about her working if it meant staying decently fed and warm well into winter. 

 

_ “At least she’s doing something to help around here.”  _ Her mother snapped. Phoebe felt herself frowning at her mother's accusation. Her father did do most of the necessary work even with his injury. 

 

It was his turn to scoff.  _ “I don’t think you get it Lucy. Do I  _ look _ like I’m doing nothing here? I don’t even understand why we’re having this argument when we’re getting along just fine.” _

 

_ “And that’s exactly why we’re talking about this! We are not fine. We’ve already pawned off half of what I brought with me to keep this place and you may be working but it’s not enough to keep us afloat, even with her pitching in.” _

 

She had half a mind to stomp in and explain that she wasn’t mute. There was a twinge of annoyance in her lower spine.  _ “Well I don’t know what you want me to do here. I know both of us have been pulling our weight these past few months, so what would you suggest? Starving ourselves?” _

 

_ “Of course not! But we need a new plan and unless we think of something fast--” _

_ “And do you have one?”  _ He cut her off.

 

There was a mocking grunt of consideration.  _ “How about you cut down on the mead?” _

 

_ “I told you it was  _ one _ time.”  _ He answered, clearly beginning to lose his level headedness.  __

 

_ “No.”  _ She felt a twinge in her stomach at the clear lack of faith when she could testify nothing better. It had been several times. She’d just managed to hide herself whenever her father stumbled through the front door, eyes distant and blonde hair matted, like a man who’d been deprived of sleep for weeks.

 

It was by the fourth time that she hadn’t even needed to bother moving from her stance. He had been too far gone to tell the fire was burning, much less to see his daughter stoking it.

 

_ “I know that it can’t be.”  _ She declared flatly.  _ “And it needs to stop.” _

 

_ “And I told you there’s nothing to stop!”  _ He answered hotly.

 

_ “And maybe you should stop denying it!”  _

 

_ “And maybe you should know better than to sneak around with--” _

 

She smacked her palms to her ears and started humming gibberish, moving away from the wall and towards the steps. There was nothing in the world that would make this argument worth listening to when she knew nothing would change. In two minutes her mother would collect her downstairs and grab her to Notre Dame, whether or not she wanted to follow along, pretending like nothing at all had transpired and the arrow protruding from her pride had been pulled out years ago. They would return after two hours of heavy prayer, she would get thumped with a bible for being annoyed at suddenly being uprooted from her life, and she will have lost valuable time working while her father would pound a mug or two and stumble home well after she’d been forced to repeat the solemn declaration of her father’s unholy evil and pray for it to be lifted.

 

Of course she wasn’t stupid. The prayers never did come to pass because she knew better than to blatant and selfish when requesting a favor of God. That may have been how her mother saw it, but it certainly wasn’t how she saw it.

 

Instead, she crushed the rosemary from her pocket, pulled on a cobalt blue frock, and stuffed her feet into her father’s old boots. The seven year old’s feet hardly fit them well, but at the moment she wasn’t about to go back to her room and retrieve her own. Mumbling under her breath, she smacked the discarded herbs on the foreman's table amongst the bolts and tools, knowing her parents, despite their heated argument and distance, would still be mortified and search the ends of the earth for her without some sort of sign that she’d left and would return. Throwing open the side door to the forge after tugging her cloak down from its wall peg, she stomped outside, letting the door slam shut on it’s own.  

 

Stalking along the walls in the early morning, her small shadow arched across the plaster and wooden frames of the row homes and apartments like some giant hen pecking at the ground for seeds. She was hardly alone on the street, the rolling carts and general civilian populace chattering, shouting, scolding, all of them completely happy to ignore what looked like an orphan. She’d seen it countless times before, and the shadows of the poor and downtrodden mixed with her own as she trailed around their sleeping bodies, content to continue walking for as far as her tiny legs would carry her. 

 

Finally after walking for what felt like hours, she reached the edge of the Seine, the Île de la Cité a dark shadow in the mid morning light’s rays. Exhausted from fleeing the loud voices of her bickering parents, she scouted a fountain and sat down at it’s edge. Reaching for a drink was futile as the water was covered in suds from the early laundry her mother had no doubt been doing out here.

 

“Why did I even bother coming here?” She sighed before laying on the rim and peeling off the boots that exposed the developing blisters on her feet.

 

“Seems to me like someone stole your shoes.”

 

She shot up, a black clad woman looking her over from where she had sat herself next to the seven year old. “Huh?”

 

“I’m only joking.” A smile spread across her youthful face. She barely seemed a day past eighteen. “The lord has certainly given us a lovely morning hasn’t he?”

 

Scanning the woman over the silky black habit which covered almost all of her hair left a fringe of inky black bangs which curved in soft looking clumps across her forehead. She could hardly tell if the young nun was being sarcastic or earnest. Not about to offend the first friendly face she’d seen in a week, Phoebe swung over the edge of the fountain and plunged her feet into the water as if they were the bolts and screws she cooled. She shook her head.

 

“I know.” She started unlacing her boots as the younger girl was left to stare at her completely non conservative behavior. In moments the girl was sitting at her side, feet in the water with her as the skirts were lifted slightly to keep them from getting soaked. “Agnes.” She introduced herself as she tugged off her habit, her hair puffing up as the cover was removed. She set a covered basket on the ground by her boots.

 

“Phoebe.” She answered tentatively. “So what happened to you that’s so bad?”

 

The smile faded. “Just taking my lunch hour outside the convent.” She drolled, swirling a pale toe in the water. “What about you?”

 

While Phoebe was immediately skeptical and curious that her lunch break was all that was wrong, she sighed as her eyes trailed down to her rippling reflection. “My parents.”

 

“What about them?”

 

“They’re fighting.” She bit her tongue. She sucked a breath through her teeth in a very informal way. “I just couldn’t listen to it anymore.”

 

There was a moment where Agnes looked over at the girl beside her, her hands folded tightly within her armpits and her face was scrunched up in the adorable type of anger that only a young child could pull off sympathetically. “How long have they been going at it?” She asked after a moment.

 

“Months now. I thought it was getting easier to ignore it but…” 

 

“You just can’t.” She replied emptily. “Because you always want it to stop.”

 

Phoebe stared incredulously, and the nun nodded. “My parents had their share of fights. Don’t you worry dear, I’m sure they’ll find a way to work things out. If God brought them together there must’ve been something beautiful behind it all.”

 

“I wish.” She perched her cheek on her hand and sighed. “Did it work out for your parents?”

 

There was a steady pause as if Agnes was debating whether or not to say no or lie. But the eventual silence was easily incriminating. “Not everyone’s destinies are set in stone.” She answered finally with an exalting breath.

 

“How did you deal with it?” Phoebe asked through a tiny frown. 

 

“Pretty much the same way you’re dealing with it. I used to go down to Notre Dame and wander around for the day.” She smiled wistfully, as if nostalgia had blown in a soft, warm breeze across her young face. “But I never stopped praying-- and when they weren’t answered, I realized I wasn’t going to get anywhere by asking the lord to beat a dead horse. Sometimes, when family can’t provide for you, you just have to change your ways. Change your life.”

 

“Is it that easy?” She seemed doubtful.

 

“Oh I never said that.” Anges grinned wearily. “But it’s just a thing we all have to learn eventually. If you don’t fix your world, nothing will.”

 

“Is that why you’re a nun?” Phoebe suddenly found herself considering the question as she took another look at her fountain companion, her habit in a crumpled mess by her side and her overall dishevelled appearance not isolated to when she’d joined her. 

She released a generous peal of laughter and hid her mouth with the side of her hand to hide a stage whisper. “No... I just do it for the free communion wafers!” Phoebe raised an eyebrow which elicited more laughter. “I’m only kidding. But not permanently, as you can see.” She chuckled in a self deprecating manner. “I’m just a pathetic girl playing lay sister trying to get closer to God so I can have some kind of answer.”

 

“And have you heard anything yet?” She peered at the other woman’s reflection in the sudsy water.

 

“Well… all in good time.” She shrugged. “I haven’t even been at it a month yet. Being a nun is certainly not for the faint of heart. Lots of silent prayer.”

 

Phoebe shook her head with a distant shiver at her memories. “I don’t think I wanna do that.”

 

There was a playful snort. “I wouldn’t have thought that either at your age. But you’d be surprised how much your interests change with age… and circumstances.” She tacked on after a moment. “But it’s not for everyone. You don’t have a trade yet, do you?”

 

“Kinda.” She shrugged. “I help my father with the forge. He’s a blacksmith.”

 

“My, sure is dangerous work.” She expressed a sliver of intrigue beneath the honey of her tone. “Is that what you want to do?”

 

Phoebe paused, considering the question. While yes, she enjoyed using the forge and feeling the waves of heat on her face, it was hardly safe, as Agnes had pointed out. On top of that, at her current skill level it wasn’t as thrilling as her father had probably found it before the accident… but mostly, it felt more like an obligation than an occupation. She did it more knowing that it was needed, and otherwise their income would easily have been half of what it was.

 

“I don’t really know.” She frowned at the water, her head downturned. 

 

“Well, don’t worry much about it. You’re still rather young, I imagine. Give it time and prayer. You’ll see your path one day-- hopefully sooner than me.” The sister folded her hands and looked like she was about to say something else when there was a distant chime overhead as she looked confused for a moment before something clicked. Her eyes widened and she threw herself out of the fountain and off the rim, stuffing her feet into the boots and lacing them quickly. “I need to go! I’ve got five minutes to get back to the convent!” 

 

Phoebe turned back around and looked at the ground. “Wait, those are mine!” Agnes stopped mid knot and turned red. 

 

“Sorry,” she apologized, tugging at the shoestring and rendering her knot null and void. “I’m not very smart.”

 

“Yes you are!” Phoebe exclaimed looking down at her companion’s feet. “They fit you perfectly!” A moment of consideration passed over her face as the lay sister’s eyes widened a bit before a small smile twitched. 

 

“Huh.” She chuckled. “I’ll trade you then! Mine probably fit you better anyway. They were a donation from an old mother.”

 

Phoebe slid her foot into the black boot. The leather gripped her feet perfectly and left a comfortable amount of room. There was a sense of irony to it. She did have some rather large shoes to fill. Before she could finish tying the knot Agnes was running back down the street, habit tucked at her side Phoebe’s eyes flickered to the side. Her basket lay abandoned and untouched. 

 

“Agnes, wait!” She bolted up and started in a run, picking up the lunch basket as the contents jiggled inside. “You forgot your lunch!”

 

She briefly turned back, narrowly tripping in front of a bustling cart. “Keep it!” She called. “Good luck Phoebe!” WIth that, she quickly disappeared around a corner, her habit trailing behind like a flag.

 

The blonde halted at the fountain’s edge, lowering the lunch and untucking the white napkin from the top. A drop roll, a tomato, a netted ball of cheese, a saucer, and a jug of what looked like spiced cider. Rolling the napkin over the fountain’s rim, she spread out her decisions, her stomach growling at the sight after not receiving breakfast her mother wasn’t going to make.   

 

Feeling a smile, she blushed at the bountiful lunch, more than grateful for the kindness shown to her. If Agnes had said to keep it, she was not about to refuse her wishes.

 

* * *

There was a loud pounding on the cedar door of the apartment, the rattling suggesting it was hardly a polite knock exercised by decent folk which had stopped visiting after the accident. She peered around the open door to her room, her blonde coils spilling to the side from her angled head as the roughly carved surface quivered like her parents upon hearing that knock. Her belly still full from the lunch, Phoebe quietly leaned against the doors’ surface and questioned whether or not she should open it, as her parents lack of urgency seemed to suggest their clear reluctance.

 

“Open up!” There was an irate sounding man on the other side of the door. Then there was a wave of sickness which passed over her. How did this man get into the house when the forge was the only way up?

 

Then  the knocking suddenly stopped, allowing for a tense silence that lasted until it was broken by the sound of wood dragging lamely across wood. It was a soft sound, but it did nothing to dislodge the lump in the bottom of her stomach. The thought that this could be a potentially dangerous felon suddenly gave her parents reluctance much more merit than she initially allowed.  

 

But she remained still and quiet against the wall as her mother seemed to be drifting through the hallway pale and lithe as a timid spirit. She heard the lock click softly, and the door swung open with a shallow creek. Breathing a heavy sigh, she forced herself to look out into the hallway, childhood fears plaguing her every pulse as she refused to let her hands leave the wall.

 

“Monsieur Torterue…” She heard her father gulp.

 

“Monsieur  Chateaupers .” The man answered in an unusually calm manner despite nearly breaking their front door down. “I see your leg hasn’t improved.”

 

“It’s been a slow month.” He breathed through his fear.

 

She could tell the other man wasn’t amused. “Of course it has.”

 

“Please,” She could see him look back in her direction. “We can settle this like good men.”

 

“Monsieur Chateaupers this wouldn’t even be necessary if you had just paid what you owed me on time.” He frowned, crossing his arms as Phoebe stared the the man. He certainly wasn’t a robber, but he hardly looked in a positive mood and judging from his tone it didn’t seem like this would be ending well for them unless he received some sort of money.

 

Though she could no longer see her father’s face it was obvious he wasn’t comfortable being talked down to in his own home. This was someone he clearly feared. “There has to be something else we can give you--”

 

“You’ve said that every single month for the past year, Chateaupers I’m not about to let you off with a warning or some worthless heirloom this time!”

 

“But we have no money to spare!” He pleaded. “Please, I swear to you it’s the truth!”

 

“People like you always have something to spare.” Torterue’s rat-like face twisted with an unholy grin. “You’ve got a wife and child. If one of them came with me I’d be happy to give you a stay of execution.” 

 

There was a period of silence which lasted far longer than it should’ve for Phoebe to have believe her father’s next words as the genuine truth. “They’re not going anywhere.” He said flatly. 

 

Glaring at the man with her tiny brown eyes, she felt herself walking, moving deftly across the floor and down the hall until her hands clutched wearily to her mother’s skirts. There was a whiff of lilac from the freshly washed garment as she looked out from behind the fabric like a meek soul hiding behind the shadow of a curtain.

 

“And I see the little one’s awake.” He remarked as the grin widened and he balanced himself on his knees on Phoebe’s level. “How’d you like to come with me?”

 

Feeling physically nauseous at his offer and his bitter breath, she buried her face in her mother’s skirt as she felt a familiar hand smooth her golden hair and protect her in her hiding place. She could see her father’s courage in a quivering puddle at his feet as he stared blankly at a man eyeing his daughter like a prized cut of meat.   

Seeing her disinterest, his own vacantly disgusting eyes faded to a chilled icy blue. “Fine.” He muttered under his breath, strolling away from the women and in a circling motion around her father like a shark circling its unsuspecting prey. “If I can’t get anything from your girls I’m afraid it’ll cost you dearly.”

 

“No more dearly than it would otherwise.” He mumbled emptily.

 

“No, no. Seems like the only options you’ve got left are I take this place tomorrow, or you decide to come with me to debtor’s prison before I alert the authorities.” Torterue placed his hands behind his jacket as his chest rose and fell with a beautiful confident her father could never hope to match.

 

Phoebe watched her father chew his cheek as his eyes widened and his one good knee quivered uneasily. “No, please…” Fear clawed through his throat. “I can’t go to prison. I can’t leave them without me--”

 

“Did I say that there were only two options?” The debt collector gained a smile which crawled up his pale, cold face. “You may not have riches but you have one thing I can’t discount.” He came to a stop between her father and the door. “Fealty.”

 

There was a pause as Phoebe could feel the tears in her father’s eyes. “Beg me for it.” Torterue growled.  

 

He looked back at his stone faced wife. “Lucy, take Phoebe and--”

 

“I did not say there could go anywhere.” He snarled as her mother slinked a hand around her back and pulled her close as if the man would steal her daughter's breath with an errant glare. “Beg me.”

 

There was a painfully long pause as he sucked in a breath. But as his voice started to leave his mouth he was cut off once more. “On your knees.”

 

“... But my leg,” He shook. 

 

“On. Your. Knees.” The tone suggested he would not be taking anymore excuses.

 

With great difficulty after a final tearful look at his family, the poor blacksmith lowered himself slowly to the floor of his keeping room, ash covered and all, and kissed the man’s polished boots. Once, then twice.

 

“I’m begging you.” He groveled, barely holding himself together as the embarrassment feasted heartily on his ruined pride. “Don’t haul me off to prison.” 

 

Phoebe stared at her mother, her eyes on the man she’d loved cold and distant, barely a hint of sympathy left as she was forced to look on at the scene. She tugged on her skirts and she felt the hand moving until it shielded her eyes from it. She didn’t deserve to witness such humiliation.

 

Then there was a painful wail as she heard a body hit the wooden slats and a wicked cackle erupted from Torterue. She tore past her mother’s arm and ran to her father under his torturers cold, dark shadow. Tears brimmed in her eyes as she pulled her fathers head to her chest, blood pooling in his mouth as he rolled and spit onto the floor and also onto her knees. The undying look of hatred she shot at the cruel creature above her elicited no emotion whatsoever. A tooth appeared on the small puddle at her knees. 

 

She fought every urge to pummel the unholy demon before her with whatever strength she could muster. This was no way to treat anyone, much less a man who’d been forced to such a low point and especially not to her father. But it only took a steady hand on her shoulder from a feminine touch. 

 

Phoebe looked up at her parent again, eyes brimming with rage filled tears. A rag was removed from an apron pocket, her lip curled under as she kneeled to aid her husband. But regret wasn’t there in her gaze as she held it to her husband’s mouth. Only obligation.

 

Then he was gone, the family brought to their knees for another month’s rent. Phoebe glared at the slammed door. Her mind stilled in it’s thoughts as she turned back to her poor father. There were more important things now than fairness. If her world wasn’t going to give her that, all she could do was have faith that their small family could survive this storm. It could only be a matter of time before something else had to give.

  
That time would be coming sooner than she thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... thoughts? I think this was probably the roughest chapter for me to write since seven year olds can't get into much trouble (unless you're Esmerald and Phoebe, of course!) but anyways I really hope you all liked this chapter and will come back for more around this time next month...? I'm really sorry again for the delay and hopefully SATs will let up by then. As usual, any ideas would be welcome for either of these two's futures. The age gap will get wider next chapter... I'm thinking it'll be evenly spaced over the next two chapters. Now enough rambling! I hope you're still vocal!


	3. Chapter 3

**Esmerald, Age 10**

 

The cheers of the crowd were almost deafening from where Esmerald stood behind the curtain shadow of Izaak on the stage, the wall-like buildings boxing them into the small festival that the older gypsy had managed to gain an act in due to his persuasive talents not as a salesman, but as an illusionist. While Esmerald was still barely a useful apprentice and rarely appeared on stage, he definitely knew his fair share of secrets when it came to the relatively genius illusions his room mate churned out for any audience big or small.

 

Since the third night in his caravan the art of an aesthetically pleasing illusion and a practical one was one he was happy to learn and take part in, even if it initially only meant board and three meals a day. The legality of it was a fine line that Izaak was quick to establish, as he’d quoted to Esmerald upon the reveal of his trade: God-fearing souls were quick to believe most anything he could prove to them visually without any true doubt. Had the knowledge of his Roma heritage been more visible, such generous payment would likely have become a notion of the past. 

 

Besides, it was simple entertainment… and gypsies had to eat too.

 

Focusing more on the shadow, Esmerald watched in with careful intrigue through a slight feeling of lightheadedness, silently mirroring the crowd’s quivering anticipation. He’d seen the whole routine more times than he could count, but seeing the dark silhouette as the shadows danced across the vibrant colors of his mother’s rug made his pulse race when he knew the trick and waited similarly to Izaak as the thrill would allow for an orgasmic pleasure that wouldn’t subside until the end of the evening. 

 

There was a subtle gesture with his right hand that the ten year old had been anticipating, his fingers snapping with a clack of golden rings, some decorated and some plain. Esmerald shoved himself from the supporting pole of the temporary stage and moved a wooden crate; about the height of Izaak’s knee, seamlessly out from under the rug curtain and the performer stopped it with the edge of his heel.  

A beautiful resounding chorus of gasps erupted from all sides as the magician took a step back, a black bottomed foot clearly visible from where the young boy was standing as it stepped onto the crate, taking the beautifully adorned set of maroon pants and golden shoes up with him as he appeared to float up to the crate’s top. 

 

“Was that the trick?” He remembered staring dubiously at Izaak as he’d done it the first time on a cold October morning. Izaak had burst out laughing.

 

But apparently everybody in the crowd lacked a sense of cynicism, as they cheered and cried with enthusiasm for the levitating man. The rotund gypsy was closing out the act soon, given the clatter of coins on the stage was more than expected and he was never one to test his luck. Esmerald quickly put on his accompanying mask to the act: A golden carnival mask with a corner that swooped under the slowly developing cheek bone into a glimmering crescent moon that ended in an elegant pointed tip just below his lips. He also donned a pair of gloves, a habit and a precaution for his young hands in this act. The last thing either of them needed was him cutting himself on stage and staining an otherwise successful show.  

 

Taking a deep breath to face the world at the edge of his feet, the gypsy boy slinked out from behind the end of the rug on the right wing of the stage, slowly making his way to join his companion at the center as Izaak began the finale for this afternoon.

 

There were needles pricking a sweating forehead, but it had to just be the nerves.

 

Standing mute in his position, his small hand closed around the hilt of the knife he kept safe. “And for my final trick,” The gypsy placed his stage presence to work as he enticed the crowd to savor his last and inarguably most intriguing demonstration. “I will impale myself and survive with no injuries. Some of you with weaker stomachs may want to avert your eyes.”

 

There was a brief moment of shock and worried mumbling through the sea of city dwellers. “Does anybody wish to lend me their sword?” He proposed to the audience with a daring sneer and smouldering stare. 

 

Esmerald allowed a smug grin to appear on his features. This was the one trick that nobody would ever believe possible. The money they had made form this one display alone could easily make them rich as kings, had Izaak not given much of the money back to the poor that frequented his performances as well as a stipend for emergencies.     

 

Within the space of a moment, a broad shouldered man stepped from the mass of people and laid a sharpened blade on the stage which Esmerald was quick to collect, barely surveying the weapon as his older roommate unbuttoned his shirt before casting it aside.

 

Sticking the sword sharp end down into a groove on the stage, Esmerald removed his knife from its hilt at his waist as Izaak turned to face him, hairy chest and rotund stomach a shaded, visible line to everyone even at the fringes of the square. His hazel eyes flickered down to the spot he had outlined with a dark kole circle, just beneath his liver. Taking his knife properly in one hand, Esmerald gave him a nod of acceptance before pressing the knife into the pale, scarred place. The point quickly disappeared under his skin, and within less than ten seconds the entire blade was handle-deep within the illusionist. Not a speck of blood nor hint of pain appeared anywhere on the man who’d just been impaled.

 

He turned to face the crowd, eyeing the handle with a smirk before seamlessly sliding it from the designated area. A pause followed as the reality of the situation set in on the feeble-minded crowd as a thousand eyes leveled their gaze on the blade as it caught the winking light of the sun. 

 

Taking the blade from its place in the planks, the tip cut into the tanned flesh as easily as a hot knife through lard, creases folding softly at the movement until there was a rising gasp from the audience as the blade pushed itself out at a leveled angle in his lower back. Esmerald continued the plunge until Izaak gave him a shiding nod, and the sword was left evenly dangling in the gypsy’s side, rocking softly as he did a turn for the audience who exploded with cries and rapturous applause.

 

Leaving the sword within for only a few seconds more as the clatter of gold began to pour onto the planks of the stage, Izaak clasped a hand around the handle at his front whilst Esmerald put his gloved hands around the sharper end, gently easing it through the tissue until it glided under the man’s control and was removed from its insertion far before the last coin would clatter to their feet. 

 

The cheers of the crowds continued to erupt as Izaak took a sweeping bow and rolled his wrist as Esmerald followed his motions amidst a shower of glimmering material wealth. He felt the rush of confidence in their scheme and his small heart thundered with each second in their adoration. Then he felt the other man’s hand on his own and a small pouch was pressed into his glove. Through the sideways glance, there was a flash of confidence that shone bright with a lopsided yet cocky grin.    

 

_ Close the act. _ He was ready. Eyeing the pouch through the gaps in his fingers, with a swift motion of both his arms, his right arm threw the pouch to the ground and his left one smothered his lips and nose in his sleeve. In the explosion of chemically dyed dust he felt Izaak tug him to the stage floor and crawled with his mentor behind the filtered darkness of the rug, the shimmering red cloud dissipating after a few moments of lingering in a haze.

 

For a moment, they lied backs to the rough floor, slightly starstruck in the wake of their success as they coughed to remove any remaining powder, a slight metallic taste lingering in their mouths. After a long pause of laughter through tired breaths, Izaak pushed himself up and Esmerald did the same. 

 

“You did good tonight.” The older gypsy patted him in the back. 

 

“Thanks.” He breathed as he took off the mask and cast it aside. “I still can’t believe how many people were out there.”

 

“I guess that’s what happens when you’re able to stab yourself without dying.” He answered with a morose, hollow chuckle.

 

“Djali!” Esmerald snapped his head towards the little goat as he hobbled up to his master and reached for a wide brimmed hat that laid discarded and dusty just within arms reach, batting it against the edge of his knee before tossing it to the goat who missed the brim and instead released a braying sputter as it muffled his face. 

 

Izaak concealed his amusement with a hand as the goat began running around crazily to shake the hat, with Esmerald quickly on his feet and giving chase. The excitement didn’t last long. Within a few moments he was winded and the older gypsy had but to lurch a hand out in front of him and flopping his chest to the ground with a mushroom cloud puffing up around him as the panicking goat simmered on edge in his outstretched arms, the hat having flown off his head. 

 

“You alright?” His throat was rugged with unsettled dust as his question ended in a cough.

 

Esmerald blinked, a small bead of sweat marching down his forehead. “I… I think so.” 

 

The illusionist settled to his knees and shimmied over to the twelve year old. “Open.” He ordered. Esmerald gave him a skeptical look before doing so, the broken sheet of sandy grime having settled again in resting silence. 

 

“Well… it does look a little red.” A hand brushed the side of his cheek just above his jaw. “Not warm, but looks like you’ll live.”

 

“Were you a doctor before?” The gypsy boy raised an eyebrow above deadpanning sarcasm. 

 

Izaak couldn’t help but grin at his developing sense of humor. “I wish.” He gave him a pat on the shoulder. “If I could get away with peddling my beets as a miracle drug someone would finally appreciate my cooking.”

 

A laugh turned into a cough. The bigger gypsy scooped him up and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of turnips, clicking his tongue for the goat the follow. The payment onstage could wait. The kid usually had a stellar immune system, but illness was bound to come around sooner or later.

 

***

 

 _“_ _Oh pasăre săraci,”_ _There was a song that echoed along the darkened room. “Ia-ți zborul...”_

_   
_ _ The clatter of the pedal on the lever of the wheel drummed softly through the delicate notes, as clear and timid as a freshly hatched songbird. “Peste munți, În această noapte întunecată....” _

 

_ A shiver ran down his spine. Every sound, every word, it all stunned him in its familiarity. He’d rocked back and forth in her shallow arms and snuggled tight to her breast on nights warm and cold, young mind lame and exhausted under the cover of their small house and the shine of glittering stars out the small window. She would take him into the fields on nights where the fireflies danced in the evening and cicadas joined in her lullaby.  _

 

_ His feet pressed into the cold roughness of an unidentifiable surface. A rumbling sound suddenly shook him from his stance as it echoed subtly from nowhere. The darkness stilled any possible advance. He didn’t even know where she was.  _

 

_ The shaking ground under his feet lacked definition. Nothing could be seen in any direction was the rumbling suddenly gained volume, a splitting pain searing across his forehead as his neck snapped back and he collided with the world below him. The singing continued, unabated by his movements, but then there was suddenly definition. _

 

_ Laughter. And it refused to cease its shaking growth as it seemed to come closer. The blood rushed through his collarbone and neck in a warm, rippling tide as he clawed at the darkness upon which he laid, desperately trying to get away. He cried out in anguish and slammed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitableness of his worst nightmares to come crawling from the depths of darkness which shrouded his worst nightmares like the prized velvety robes of the king. _

 

 _“Pasăre săraci,”_ She mused beautifully again, nearly drowned away in the demonic laughter as it became more gruff; more masculine. _“Ia-ți zborul, Peste munți, În această noapte întunecată…”_

 

_ Then, the sounds closing in over him suddenly passed, fading as they stealthily hovered away through the inky black of his vision. The ground became still, their tirade towards him left carelessly at his scarred feet. He still didn’t own shoes. _

 

_ The realization left his face cold as ice and his eyes limpid dots dropped and lost in a fragile glassy sea. His limbs constricted as if on an elastic string as he wished for the world he was trapped in was simply swallow him into its lifeless, taunting humor.  _

 

_ His tongue twisted around the gap where his baby teeth still were, his raven hair cropped to a reasonably short length. The voice that left his chapped lips was hardly that of the person he was now.  _

 

_ This is a nightmare. You know what’s coming, he pleaded to himself smashed his face into the ground and pushed his hands over his ears, anticipating the unfolding events despite his best efforts to free himself from this reoccurring horror. _

 

_ But his hands did nothing. Even the knife in his pocket was nowhere to be found. The songbird’s note sharpened like a pike as it was suddenly cut like an open wound. His teeth gritted as he felt the lump and tears rising, wanting to borrow into the ground. He couldn’t face the jeers as they mocked the beautiful woman being held down in his memories, her eyes flushed and dead with a fate sealed horror. He felt the inappropriateness of their teasing touch skirting his pant leg, completely paralyzed at the sharpness of their nails, the paper thin touch of their skin as it clawed at his legs, up his chest. The first scream made him roll across the ground as the jeers deafened him, the touching making him kick in his panic.  _

 

_ Something wet trailed along his cheek and he strained his head, the ants crawling through every orifice of his body multiplying. Sweat, blood, tears, semen… _

 

“ _ Esmerald! _ ”

 

_ His foot penetrated the darkness and made an impact.   _

 

_ “ _ **_Esmerald!_ ** _ ” _

 

He bolted upright as his consciousness suddenly returned, a pair of hands now holding his jerking legs still. Izaak was at his feet, glaring from where a bruise was starting to well up on the side of his jaw. The ten year blanched and recoiled, shivering from under the bear fur pelt on the straw stuffed mattress, a candle burning brightly on the box beside him. Djali was on his other arm, either intentionally or unintentionally restraining him from doing anything stupid or dangerous in his delusions. Sweat soaked every part of his body.

 

His room mate sighed grumpily and released his grip on his ankles, taking a bowl and a sea sponge from the window box they were all on and dipping it into the water, bursting air bubbles offering some sort of tension-breaking noise that failed to do much of a job. Before Esmerald could react the cool sponge was being dabbed against his forehead, refreshing beadlets of water dribbling down his burning skin. His throat and mouth quivered at its touch. He suddenly felt lost in a desert for days.

 

Before he could stick out his tongue to catch one that curled along his chapped lip, Izaak nodded knowingly at the look in his eyes and pushed himself off the window box bed of the caravan and sauntered across the wooden floor to the basin and cabinet and reappearing with a mug.

 

“Drink.” He ordered as he handed over the mug. “You’ve been running a fever for the past few hours. The last thing I need is you getting dehydrated.”

 

He nodded as he savoured the cold cider and drained the mug, his itching tongue somewhat cleansed and satisfied. “Sorry.” He whispered as he let Dajli have the remaining drops. Izaak smiled wanly through the purple bruise. 

 

“I’ve had worse.” He chuckled wryly. “Conscious and unconscious. When you’re out, it’s easy to bump into things.”   

 

Esmerald took the humor as best as he could, not exactly understanding the implications and at the moment felt too exhausted to even share his laugh. “How long have I been sleeping?” His tiny voice yawned. 

 

“About five hours. I was till about half an hour ago and then you started stirring.”

 

“I’m itchy.” He frowned as he petted Djali. 

 

“Open your mouth.” The gypsy man countered with raised brows. Esmerald complied, and Izaak nodded astutely. “Róża gardło.” He confirmed. 

 

“Wha-?’ He barely finished before coughing. 

 

“Rose throat.” He translated. “It’ll be gone in a week, maybe. For now we just need to keep you here and in bed,” He looked over the sweating young boy. “Maybe a bath or two, if you’re up to moving.”

 

“Won’t you get sick?” Esmerald looked at him earnestly. He shook his head.

 

“No, I’ve had it before. These things come and go when you're young, so don’t worry too much about them.”

 

“I felt like I was dying.” 

 

Izaak rolled his eyes with a nearly mocking chuckle. “Don’t I know it. You were fighting for your life.” Then the amusement left his eyes and he turned his attention from himself back to the boy. “I haven’t seen you panicking like that since… those first few nights.” He acknowledged, leaving a moment for the child to consider whether or not this was going to become a discussion. They’d talked about the affairs of his past previously over the four years he’d been under Izaak’s care, and delved only as deep as the younger one wished to. The reoccurring dreams were something he despised, but something he’d realized later afterwards that he wouldn’t be able to shake. 

 

Esmerald lowered his head into his knees as they curled into his chest. After a few moments he felt a heavy hand gently rubbing his back. After a moment of the comforting touch he peered up at his room mate, his chin wedged tight between his legs. He pulled his hand away, pupils shrinking in regret. 

 

“Sorry.”

 

“No…” Esmerald answered quietly through a scratchy throat. “Don’t stop. Please.”   

 

His hazel eyes widened slightly in intrigue as he grunted in response and continued rubbing his back, a small smile twitching on his bearded face. He shared a look with Djali for a moment, still surprised by the goats subtle emotions and his connection with Esmerald. Through tired eyes he could almost swear he saw the little goat give a nod of consent. 

 

***

 

There wasn’t a sound in the world as his eyes opened to a pastel whitened ceiling, a cold, lethargic sweat soaking him on his mattress. The shadows of the early morning cloud cover permeated the caravan and the smell of pickles and dusty metallic pouches filled his nose. His tongue stung raw as if it had been rubbed all night relentlessly with sandpaper, but he definitely felt better than he had last night or especially three nights ago. 

 

The caravan was empty aside from Djali who was curled up in the blanket that had fallen from his window box bed and was snoring softly. Esmerald thanked his blessings as he got out of bed. As much as he loved the goat the creature normally snored loud enough to keep them both awake for hours. Not that either of the men minded. 

 

It gave them time to talk, tell stories, or practice fighting-- the later of which he was becoming exponentially better at with almost nightly practice since Izaak had forced a pole into his hands after his tenth birthday. He didn’t want a repeat of Bavaria, no matter how much Esmerald tried to play it off as a stroke of bad luck.

 

Whenever something terrible happened involving him it seemed to put Izaak on a very short rope, but thankfully that only applied to situations for which the boy was the one in control. 

 

“You think this is funny?” He’d snapped at him when he’d cracked a smile at the state the other gypsy had put the people who’d dared lay a hand on Esmerald’s head. He quickly shook his head, a bit taken aback.

 

He groaned. “Esmerald you know you can’t keep expecting me to come in and save you, right? One of these days you’ll need to learn to protect yourself. Bad luck won’t get you killed, Esmerald. You will.”

 

Shortly after that show of force his training began with a wooden pole, a weapon he had seriously underestimated in usefulness, especially in combating with more deadly melee weapons. Of course, knives were also a tool used in combat that with an old straw stuffed sack his teacher easily rendered to ribbons after long enough and when the time came to settle on what he was best with the blade was his first weapon of choice. Of course, the wooden pole was still quite handy, but he lacked good enough balance or coordination to do more than flip himself onto his back when going for an offensive swipe.

 

Tiptoeing towards the door, he pried open the buttons on his shirt and checked his reflection in the dirt smudges that lined the edge of their best looking glass. The rash that had hardily blossomed on his skin and bones chest had dissipated, leaving nothing to trace but only a few remaining bumps that looked limp rather than angry.

 

He found his mentor outside, setting down the remnants of the target practice for Pica to munch on, the golden straw damp with moisture and raggedly cut, but the horse apparently didn’t seem to mind. His sighed, dusting his hands off before smiling confidently down at the twelve year old. 

 

“You’re on the mend, I see.” He remarked as the young man walked past him to pet the steed he’d had since he was six. 

 

He returned the wan smile as he stroked the muzzle. “You should’ve seen Djali.”

 

“I know.” Izaak’s eyes were impressed through his sarcasm. “I also heard him. Maybe you should get sick more often if this is what it takes to get a quiet night’s sleep.”

 

“I don’t think so.” He chuckled. “Where are we going today?”

 

He shrugged his shoulders. “We’re deep in bourgogne country. You know that thought I had last summer-- about going further south?”

 

“To Marseille?” 

 

“Mmhmm.” He nodded. “I was thinking we should follow through on that and head south in an hour or so. It’s warm in the winter, it’s out of France, and if we play our cards right it could be a good spot to ground our show.”

 

Esmerald looked closely at him. “Ground the show?”

 

“I don’t mean we’ll stop performing, but the seedier portions have sin,” He made air quotes on the phrase.”Oozing out on every corner. Getting a building means we won’t have to pack up every show, worry about picking up all our loot by sundown, maybe even get you an education.” 

 

He couldn’t conceal his laughter when Esmerald made a face, his soft features hidden in a scowl. “And I don’t mean an actual school. I’ll at least teach you the basics. I’ve just never had the time to actually sit you down for a lesson. We might be gypsies, Esmerald, but knowing how to write can get you places.”

 

His frown disappeared but he still hung his head slightly, as if the thought of doing so gave him no pleasure. He didn’t mind the idea of learning how to write, of course, but he’d been a nomad nearly all his life. He’d become accustomed to the bumping of the caravan’s wheels across muddy streams and ragtag roads, the shared living space, the simple meals and the prospect of seeing a new place nothing like the last every week. Besides, they never lasted in one place for long before Izaak determined it was best to cut their losses socially and leave, taking their show on the road. It was always only a matter of time before people realized they were gypsies through the wonder and awe and began giving them both withering glares if seen in the light of day. His only roots strangled him in his sleep like a hedge of frostbitten roses, cutting his tawny skin, constricting his dreams in its piercing thorns. All his old life was to him despite his mother’s best intentions and efforts was nothing more than a painful memory after getting tangled up with Izaak. 

 

He still feared it-- the things those men said to them before taking his mother to the ground, his cheek stinging with a welt from where he’d been knocked to the ground and practically helpless even after he’d tried to fend them off. The only thing that kept him from being dead was his ability to stay still. 

 

How ironic. 

 

After only a moment, however, he perked back up, his voice edging slightly with a proposition. “I was thinking… We’ve got enough gold to spend the day in town. We haven’t encountered anything bad yet. We should at least stock up on supplies, right?”

 

Izaak studied him through a small smirk, clearly knowing that they were nowhere near low of supplies and that he could easily shut down the idea but after a moment nodded in agreement. “I guess I can’t see why not. Get some gold for your pocket and we’ll start out in a bit. I’ll saddle up Pica.”

 

“Can Djali come too?” Izaak rolled his eyes and nodded, and after releasing a small yelp of excitement the ten year old bounded back into the caravan leaving the rotund man to tend to the horse.

 

***

 

The town they’d decided to temporarily settle within was hardly what either Izaak or Esmerald could define as one. With their caravan comfortably nestled in the vines and edges of a flooded bank, the two set off with Pica tied to a fencepost near the road in and had taken to going forth into the place on foot. What they saw hardly surprised them as they’d been through places that were larger, but the tall sweeping gothic buildings of porous sandstone both glimmering and grimy were a sight like no other amidst a repetitive run of cobblestones and dirty plaster. The roofs were also in anomaly-- the tiles being a somehow cohesive design of terracotta, green, yellow were masked beneath rain lines and dirt. It was an entrancing, tarnished beauty. It was rather fitting, really.

 

The tall buildings in their opulence were shared with the common passerby that donned their finest coats and dresses in preparation for the cool of the early spring, earth toned silk reflecting the light as it began to peek through the cotton wisps above. Had the two decided to start performing right then and there, a veritable fortune would have been made without any resistance. Only the occasional guard monitored the street corner and many noisily strolled away from the calamity of the bars and pubs that peppered the city.

 

Izaak walked ahead with Esmerald and Djali trailing behind in their colorful cloaks. A lean arm pointed at a flag which fluttered atop a steeple. A blue coat of arms rippled quietly in the breeze, the many burgundy fleur-de-lis contrasting the cobalt fabric in two corners. “It’s a duchy.” 

 

“Huh?”

 

“Dukes rule here.” Izaak elaborated. “That means more guards and more money than usual.”

 

“But we haven’t seen any--”

 

“I know.” He answered quietly. “And that shouldn’t matter. But we’re outsiders. Just stay close, okay?” Esmerald nodded as they kept walking along the cobblestone street, their booted soles protected from the bitter cold ground.

 

Within the space of an hour the familiar scent of spices, rum, tobacco, and sourdough bread wafted through the narrowing roads. The sandstone buildings began to shift between more familiar architecture and the shouts of the farmers and grain mongers in multiple tongues echoed along the wall. The coins in his pouch were clutched in his hand and the anticipation of enjoying the feeling or taste of something he could purchase wasn’t exactly a foreign feeling, but it was pleasant to savour when it occurred. It had been nearly three months since they’d needed to buy anything that wasn’t bartered or bought in the last big haul, and Izaak had been more insistent on going either alone or with Djali since Bavaria.      

 

Of course, despite Esmerald’s initial protests, he was always willing to enjoy whatever his guardian would bring home. Even if he wasn’t a direct part of the selection, the outcome was almost always an experience in it of itself. Despite the enticing existence of curling up on his window box and reading one of the aged books from Izaak’s old collection, he missed the world that he only saw through the stage or through the nights his mentor would drill him on combat right outside during the night. 

 

All the more reason to keep experiencing it for as long as he could. As long as he could convince Izaak to come with him.

 

The circular rim of a massive and old fountain dribbled clean water into a concrete basin, the statue atop discolored a pastel aqua from oxidization. It was telling, seeing a clear reflection in the water. Even in a place that was kept from the high society, the lower pillars didn’t seem to need to wash anything in it. A sigh became from behind him as he turned and saw a strange sight. The older man’s broad shoulders seemed to slump off kilter as if they had just been released from the deathly cold clamp of a tightening vise. It seemed like a lifetime ago that Izaak had ever looked relaxed. 

 

“Are you okay?” Esmerald gave him an incredulous glance over. 

 

There was a mocking laugh. “Better than I’ve felt in years, honestly. It’s nice to have some company out here.” His eyes trailed to the small goat who nudged against him in a faux pathetic manner and he smirked in amusement before focusing on Esmerald again, looking fondly at the ten year old. “Have you tried wine before?”

 

“You’ve offered.” The boy recalled. “Why?”

 

“Apparently there’s quite a bit of it around here… that and mustard, it seems.”

 

“Do you want to go look?”

 

Izaak paused as his gaze lifted to the massive square, staring wantonly at the objects which lined the stalls and stores. The feeling of monetary freedom was contagious, it seemed. His lip curled under his front incisors for a moment of consideration before he slowly nodded. “I haven’t had it since… I guess before you.”

 

Esmerald grinned. “Well don’t just stand there looking greedy. Go get some. I’ll be around.”

 

“Around?” That look of longing instantly vanished.

 

He patted the rim of the fountain and the little goat hopped up and sat obediently at his level. “I’ll keep Djali close. I’m old enough to go out on my own, aren’t I?” A long pause passed as a hand stroked his beard thoughtfully.   

 

Suddenly his shadow stretched as he lunged at Esmerald, a playful growl escaping his throat as he aimed to shove the boy backwards into the fountain. Instinct kicked in as his lanky arm pushed itself towards the older gypsy’s neck and his knee swung upwards, the key move to disarming any men that came his way. Izaak gingerly stopped in his tracks as his eyes fell to the handle of the dagger which remained untouched and safe in its holster and the readiness of his pupil. A confident grin blossomed and he backed away.

 

“I guess you are now.” He answered with the small grin. 

 

“I learn from the best.” Esmerald matched him.

 

With his permission duly granted, the small gypsy quickly found himself awash in a familiar setting with all the world’s treasures seemingly within his reach. It had been years since he’d spent any money of his own directly and seeing the selection before him was nearly strenuous in the midst of an emerging day where people began streaming in and out of the bazaar’s shops with long lists in mind. 

 

Then, he felt something was off in the pit of his stomach… as if someone was watching him closely. He stood with Djali before a strange machine that sat lifeless, a shiny golden key sticking from the golden bird’s wing. It resembled some sort of bird of prey, one Esmerald didn’t recognize in the slightest. The golden plates shielded the inner mechanics and glimmering in the noonday sun that shone through the store window. It looked priceless for it’s size and composition, and through the corner of his eye he could see an older woman with a severe hunch, an unfortunately receded bosom, and bloodshot eyes was glaring at him suspiciously, not even trying to hide her emotions or to try and be inconspicuous.  

 

Trying to ignore the feeling, he sighed and stared at the bird once more, taking in the finer details of it’s elegant pose as it sat on a forked branch with it’s cap turned to the right and staring with glass eyes to the distance. There was a tray at the level of his chest that caught the light as he moved. Golden keys, exactly like the one that was sticking out of the weird bird sculpture. His hand brushed them lightly, the gilded keys jingling and clanking against one another as he employed his curiosity, each one of them no different than the other. Finally, after picking one of them up despite not even knowing what it was, he pocketed it.   

 

But that old lady was still there, watching him oggle at whatever that thing was. Esmerald found himself sighing with irritation and started walking with Djali following behind. The woman cleared her throat. Esmerald didn’t acknowledge it.

 

“Young man,” The old bird starting following him at a quicker pace than he himself was going. Esmerald turned halfway to the owner who was occupied with another customer.

 

“What?” He frowned up at the woman. “I’m going to pay for it.”

 

What followed was a strange and unsettling combination of a frown and a sneer. “With what? The goat?”

 

Djali snuffed and he glared. “With money that I earned.”

 

“Gypsies don’t earn money.” It came with a shallow scoff. The owner turned in their direction. “Your people never do anything but leach. Come into a town, beg for days, and chuckle to yourself as you go onto the next place.”

 

He was about to just turn around and pay for his key when he bumped into a grease-stained apron, falling back to his bottom as a shadow loomed over him. The owner looked down at him, then the woman before extending a hand to the gypsy boy who took it and was helped to his feet. “Is something the matter here?”

 

Before Esmerald could even open his mouth the old crone beat him to it. “Bartholomew this gypsy was trying to steal a windup key. I saw him stick it in his pocket.” 

 

The kindly man’s face dimmed as he looked down as the younger boy who shook his head. He lowered himself to Esmerald’s height with an intimidating stare. “It that true?”

 

“No.” Esmerald turned out his pocket and held it in his fist. “I was going to buy it. Here.” He dropped it on the ground. “Just keep it.”

 

“Where is your mother?” The old lady demanded with a sour frown as the owner stared blankly at the windup key. The gypsy felt a wave of anger course through him. Why was this old woman being so antagonizing?

 

“She’s dead.” He answered simply. “Now if you’ll please just let me leave--”

 

“Wait one moment young man.” Bartholomew cut him off as he started to walk past them both. “Turn out your pockets.” Through gritted teeth and knowing the consequences Esmerald begrudgingly did so. When nothing came out, their eyes shifted to the pouches at his waist. “The pouches too.”

 

He felt his face going red as he took the money pouch and poured the contents onto the wooden floor, several shillings and golden coins clattering noisily to the wooden floor as patrons began to stare at the confrontation. 

 

“Now the other one.” The lady prodded with a withered smirk. His eyes widened in disgust as his hand clasped around the pouch. Even with his claims proven true she still wasn’t satisfied. This was the final straw.

 

A heavy shadow walked past the window as he threw down the volatile pouch of red dust and covered his mouth with his sleeve. Cries and shouts filled the shop as Esmerald beelined for the exit, his vision stained blood red as the cloud of hungry dust ate the light that shone through the windows and left everyone oblivious to his escape. 

 

“Witchcraft!” He heard somebody scream as he bounded out the door caked with a thin film of red, his eyes stinging against the light of the noonday sun as a gauntlet closed around his arm. 

 

He shouted in terror at the cold grip and tried to pull himself away until suddenly a blind Djali barreled out from the shop and took his feet out from under him, leaving him hanging like a ribbon in the wind as the guard hoisted him up, tawny skin peeking out around his eyes from under the dusty red sheet as it crumbled away in a circle around him, sliding away seamlessly. 

 

The guard’s chilly eyes locked onto his own and he suddenly felt helpless. His knife lay lost beneath him and Djali coughed and hacked through the red dust. A cloud of red dust spilled like mist through the doorway of the trinket shop as people began finding their way out. What had he done? This was Bavaria all over again. The only thing that could somehow make this worse was--

 

A bottle shattered on the cobblestones as the crowd suddenly turned to the sound. Izaak stared ahead at Esmerald, his eyes devoid and lost as they scanned the scene. Wine soaked into the cracks of the plaza like blood. Another guard appeared from the edge of the citizens and Izaak suddenly looked to him then back to Esmerald.

 

His voice was firm. “Drop him.”

 

“This boy just performed some sort of witchcraft.” The guard stated as Esmerald hung by one arm, limp as a ragdoll. “He’s coming with us.”

 

“No he isn’t.” Izaak stepped over the broken bottle. Esmerald’s eyes widened as he realized what his guardian was doing and he quickly shook his head with fear crawling through his intestines. 

 

“Izaak--”

 

“I gave him that pouch. I taught him how. He’s my responsibility. Let the boy go now and take me with you.”

 

Telling the truth had occurred to him. But there was no chance of explaining it now in public when he was in serious trouble. There would be no fighting, not when it was becoming more and more clear that they were outnumbered as Izaak’s prediction of more guards than usual gradually began to push their way through the crowd as they cautiously backed up and Izak came closer to the guard which held Esmerald.

 

The gauntlet suddenly released and before he could protest Esmerald was falling and with a yelp he smacked ungracefully to the cobblestones, coughing as the wind left his lungs. Izaak was quick to help him to his feet as Esmerald felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.     

 

“You can’t,” He pressed himself into the older gypsy. “You told me I couldn’t always count on you to do this.”

 

Izaak held him close. “You won’t.” He answered as he pulled Esmerald back and looked at him. “Go back to the caravan.” He whispered. “Stay there and stay inside. Don’t open the door for anything or anyone and I’ll be back. Just wait for me.” He planted a kiss on his forehead. “I will see you again. Hey,” Esmerald quivered in his grip. “I promise.”

 

He felt himself pulling away, slowly backing up as Djali appeared at his side, apparently recuperated as he moved in sync with his master. The guards pulled Izaak to his feet. He turned. The crowd began to disperse. There was clanking tin and steel as he pushed his way back towards the edge of the town where he empty home waited. 

At he neared the edge of the town, he felt himself slowing down until his shoes stopped in their tracks, blisters forming that the sole and edge. Without another thought he stepped out of the right one, then the left, and stared ahead at the world ahead of him as the azure blue sky darkened with the sun behind them. Djali nudged into his master as if to keep him from collapsing under the weight of his own despair. 

 

He didn’t know if it work work for long.

 

***

 

 _He felt weightless in the lofty space of darkness, his green eyes glowing like fires through the black mist and air. “_ _Oh pasăre săraci,_ _Ia-ți zborul...”_

 

_ He knew that song. “Peste munți, În această noapte întunecată....” _

 

_ He knew this nightmare.  _

 

_ Then, a scream rang in his ears that devolved into demonic cackling. But it was familiar-- a voice he knew. Izaak was a dim shadow before him, a limp shape moulded into the ground as Esmerald felt a cold sting to his feet, the blackened soles tentatively scooting closer to someone he felt was barely a stranger to him, if even that. The rotund gypsy moved, slinking like a caterpillar before managing to prop himself to sit up. He pointed at Esmerald. _

 

_ With a stump. His index finger swung on a piece of flesh, the bone sticking sharp from the muscle and blood dribbled carelessly in a steady stream from the ruined appendage. His face was bruised and a bloody mess of gore now resided where once there had been a brilliantly vibrant hazel eye. Esmerald gagged at a sight as his eye twitched along with the gypsy who paused in his unsettling episode and stared into Esmerald with his one good eye.  _

 

_ “I told you,” He smiled as a trail of blood began to dribble from his mouth as a small line. “I told you to stay inside… Luck won’t get you killed Esmerald.” A rapturous laugh erupted as he swung and collapsed in a fit. “You will.”  _

 

_ His chest was slowing it’s panting and a rattling cough shook the adult as Esmerald fought the urge to run. He was losing his mind. “After all,” He continued morosely. “You’ve already killed me.”    _

 

He shot up from the wooden slats, the ragged blue blanket he’d cared for in his youth tucked around him and Djali. The sound of rain pattered on the roof of the caravan and a flash of light shone through the window with a crack of thunder rumbling in the distant. Djali shivered helplessly at the sound and the ten year old soothed him as best he could. Through teary eyes he realized the caravan was still empty as he tried and failed to wipe that hideous image of the man who’d practically raised him from his vision and from his mind. If only doing such a thing were so simple. 

 

A rattling sound emanated from the door. He and Djali both looked at it then back to each other. With caution and a hand on his knife, Esmerald crawled softly across the floor as the sound repeated, a little harder this time.

 

His small hand crept around the handle of the door as he pulled the knife from his scabbard. For all he knew whoever had seen the spectacle earlier had found where they lived and wanted to finish the job. Biting the edge of the lip until his felt blood through a bruise, he shut his eyes and pulled the door open as fast as he could, backing up as a shadow loomed on the front step. 

 

Izaak tumbled to the wooden floor and shivered through rain soaked ragged clothes, back heaving slowly as a shadow through another flash of lightning. He vomited.

 

Esmerald shut the door.   

 

* * *

 

**Phoebe, Age 12**

The early morning sun’s rays shone brightly through the warped glass of the workshop, the gleaming golden fingertips dancing in spotlights across the dusty plaster walls and the splitting planks of the blackened pine steps. The warmth of their splendor held her stationary bowl of pasty porridge at her side as she prepared to start the day. Sliding her soot stained feet into her father's old slippers she tracked vigorously across the stone floor and ungracefully slid her hastily prepared breakfast along the right edge of the table, the ceramic noisily clattering with the dozens of finished bolts and screws as they careened in lazy circles across the stained and burned surface. 

 

Under her breath she whistled a tune in the morning air as she shrugged on her gloves and took her flints, striking a stream of sparks and the morning’s bundle of sap encrusted pine needles that served for the twelve year old’s fire starter. Tossing the concoction into the stone hearth and running her covered fingers over the cracks formed that night in her youth, Phoebe paused in her routine, song dying as the embers flickered and crackled to life.    

 

A brick laid still at her feet, a liability for her to trip had she not noticed it only seconds prior. The now flightless object’s path led from a scattered impact on the floor to a noticeable hole in the window. She cursed in her mind. Their landlord would certainly be noticing that new feature.

 

With a heavy sigh, she picked up the brick and slammed it on the work table, a sign her drunken father had become less and less susceptible towards in the past few months. She did it knowing in the back of her mind it was only for her own satisfaction. The pathetic lump above her wouldn’t hear the four horsemen of the apocalypse a foot from his bed after one of his nights out. 

 

Why did she even bother? The morning bells were tolling and the scattered implements of her family’s trade and solely of her toil needed selling. They were actually doing quite well with her current amount of work-- enough to keep the rent and food since she’d discovered the infidelity of the the guards for their weapons supply. It seemed they didn’t think much of Judge Charmolue or for all she knew they were merely disgruntled by a new ‘bring-your-own swords’ campaign. Why a few of them obtained their wares from a twelve year old girl was not any of her business and as far as she was concerned it could stay that way if it meant payment. Anything to keep Monsieur Torterue from returning and further crippling any of them.

 

It would never be worth watching him hurt her father, no matter how he might’ve deserved it. 

 

Mumbling beneath her breath, she strolled over to the doorway and propped it open with an erroneous nail that bent at a pleasing angle to hold a door ajar-- one of the few mistakes in her life she actually cherished. The others… well, she hadn’t lost a leg yet.

 

Grabbing the poker to tend to the warming fire, the waves of heat sent sweat pouring down her dirty face. The open door was a universal sign to the neighborhood and any passerby the the forge was now seeing visitors and customers, the youth of the manager be damned.     

 

Setting the brilliantly glowing stoker down as a thought returned to her mind, she grabbed a rag from the work table and stuffed it through the hole in the window, cursing her father’s bar buddies for getting carried away with their nightly antics  _ again.  _ This was the second time this month that they’d pulled this stunt, at least from what she could tell.

 

Backing away, she observed her admittedly crappy job… it didn’t look  _ terrible, _ but it would have to do for today until she could replace the pane. That would require going to the glass blower, which would require additional funds, which would require getting up an hour earlier, which would-- 

 

_ It’s not even  _ seven, _ Phoebe. It’s too early to be opening today’s Pandora’s Box. _

She’d scold him later, her and her mother both. It would be fine in the end. Jon would help her fix the hole; maybe she’d get some sort of deal from the convent later. It would all work itself out in the end.

 

_ Have faith, _ She twisted a lock of spun gold which had freed itself from her braids,  _ Have faith. _

 

Within the space of a few minutes, her first customer appeared from the door and thankfully paid no mind to her haggard appearance, her age, or the glaring shadow cast by the repair on the window. The man laid a small pouch of coins on the table without a word, and before she could respond a sword with a less than impressive blade clattered loudly next to the pouch. For a moment Phoebe was grateful for her growing height. It allowed her startling to go unnoticed by a customer, especially one who didn’t seem interested in much other than business, plain and simple. 

 

“I’ll have it ready before noon.” She answered dully as she peered up at the customer and took both objects off the table, sliding the pouch into a bin and placing the sword carefully on the floor. 

 

But as she looked to him from her stool as his shadow barely eclipsed her form, his expressionless features shifted and he nodded, as if finally noticing her age. His jaw worked for a second before he turned and walked out, barely moved from his concrete mannerisms. 

 

With the forge now again empty, she took the sword and observed it a little closer. The blade-- if she could even call it that --was in horrendous condition. The luster had long ago tarnished, the silver having faded and rusted slightly where metal joined rainguard, and collected in a dusty red mess at the crossguard, bleeding into the grip. Wiping her hands on her apron, she ran the tip of her finger lightly over what was supposed to be the sharp end. The thing looked as if it had lost a battle with a beaver and been left in the wake to be made part of its dam. Several glaring chasms and chips lined the left edge and the right looked improperly sharpened. This would take her days… one at least with her usual workload.

 

A sigh melted into a groan. Her and her big mouth. At least it was good money.

 

The sound or rapping on wood jerked her head up at the door where a lean shadow peered in from the other side. Her frown held as she set the weapon on the table.

 

“Nice window you’ve got there.” He jabbed his thumb at the hasty repair. 

 

“Sorry, we’ve got a no felons rule here.” Her frown curved into a smirk. 

 

His eyes widened in a theatrical display of mock surprise. “You’re suggesting I did it?”

 

“No one else has stepped forward and you seem just the shifty type anyhow.” She shrugged as a bead of sweat trailed down her nose. The boy laughed.

“Do I now?” He sauntered up to the table.

 

“Well that and the fact that you seem to be running out of excuses to randomly appear around here.” She rolled her eyes and leaned her chest along with her neck over the table. “Tell me, what could it be today? A pile of slag you want reassembled into a pot? A broken window wouldn’t be too much of a step up for you.”

 

“Haha you kid.” He chuckled. “It’s actually a stripped screw.”

 

“ _ A  _ stripped screw?” She raised a blonde brow. “You’re not even trying.”

 

“Good to see you too, Phoebe.” He dropped the aforementioned piece on the desk. 

 

“And not even a tip.” She clucked her tongue. “Didn’t your mother raise you better than this?”

 

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk back to a customer madame?” He countered slyly as he moved around the table to view the girl’s daily order. 

 

“Jon!” She gave him a nudge to keep him out from the forge area. “You know better. Besides, nothing much to see back here yet.”

 

“Really? Only one order? And you chastise my stripped screw.” A sly grin curved up his mouth.

 

“One measly stripped screw won’t pay for a grain of flax.” She grumbled, her irritation clear, but at what exactly she didn’t really know. “I guess traffic’s not too bad yet.”

 

“That’s the spirit.” Jon answered, pumping his fist. “It’s barely past seven yet. The guards will start rolling in soon enough.”

 

Of course Phoebe knew that, but smiled again nonetheless. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here. It’s not like you need to get out of the house.” She took the screw and dropped it into a drawer. 

 

“What? A boy can’t check up on his friend?”

 

“Not when I’m working, no.”

 

“Exactly.” He nodded with a deadpan tone. 

 

She bit her lip as her gaze lifted past Jon and towards the silent door. “Fair enough. I’ve got five minutes.” The girl pointed at the bulge in his shirt pocket and he handed over his watch. An audible click echoed between the two as she set the watch on the table, their conversation now being timed. “Go.”

“Alright then.” He settled. “How’s your father?”

 

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Drunk as always. Still sleeping last night off. Yours?”

 

“Back from his business trip.”

 

“Any new watches?” Her eyes darted to the one on the table, the thing still shiny and new as it was barely the second one in existence, family connections to a Bavarian inventor having given her friend access to such things that always made their five minute conversations more enthralling than the usual topics both timid and mundane.

 

“No,” He faltered. “Just fabrics and things.”

 

“I see.” She nodded. “Not much with the wars going on over there, maybe?”

 

“I dunno.” He shrugged. “They’re always fighting.”

 

“Well,” She chuckled. “It’s not like I’m going to be seeing soldiers around here, right?”

 

“I wouldn’t doubt it. We entered last week.”

 

“Huh?”

 

France was at war? Well… at least she might be getting more traffic than usual. Paranoid people still had duels to fight and people to watch. “I guess news takes it’s sweet time to most people here.” He answered.

 

“And how did you find out?” She pressed, focusing in on the look of anxiety on his face.

 

“Bulletins.” He shook his head. “They posted a notice on Notre Dame’s door.” 

 

“Last week?” She leaned back on her stool, the numbers not really adding up. She was there not even three days prior and the magnificent wooden doors were no different than they had been any other time of the year. 

 

“On the back door.” He quickly covered. “Two days ago.”

 

“I see.” She replied evenly, not believing this story for a second. “The back door that’s behind the stone wall and unavailable to visitors.”

 

“No, the other one.” 

 

“ _ What  _ other one?”

 

“Just the other one--”

 

“Jon.” She cut him off. “What are you leading me on about? What does an imaginary bulletin have to do with any of this?” It only took her moment as her mind began to piece together his uneasiness with the situation. The final result was not a pretty one.

 

His hand closed around the pocket watch and dragged it back to his pocket. “Time’s up.” He answered before taking a breath and turning around. The twelve year old opened the drawer and grabbed the stripped screw he’d brought in and held it out.

 

“Wait.” He started walking. Irritated, Phoebe got off of her stool and caught up to him, snaking a soot stained hand around his wrist.

 

“Phoebe, stop.” He pulled his wrist free. “I need to go.”

 

“Go and do what?” She pressed, angry now. “Go and get yourself killed?”

 

“Look, this isn’t about you!” He turned around as Phoebe was forced to take a step back.

 

She scoffed. “Yes it is!” She thrust her fist which held the screw until it punted her friend in the chest. “You always come in here, take up my time, give me money for pointless projects I learned when I was seven. Now you show up like normal and just think you can casually walk out of my house without even telling me I might never see you again?” 

 

He glared. “It’s a draft, Phoebe! They’re asking everyone to enlist.”

 

“Asking.” She snorted. “And yet you’re just going anyway?” 

 

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

 

“This is just another war!” She countered, her voice rising. “France will pull through just like it always has and you’ll be no better off!”

 

“You mean  _ you’ll _ be no better off.” He mumbled before realizing his mistake and Phoebe reminded of such a fact with a resounding sock in the gut. 

 

Of course, being her age and malnourished, it barely brought anything but an irritated scowl from her friend, one that quickly melted when he remembered what he had only just said to earn him physical brutality.

 

He’d been the one to brighten up her mornings for several years. The two were fast friends since a nine year old gap toothed boy strolled into the shop with an irate parent and paid two day’s worth of meals for a sword repair; something the young Phoebe had barely started to grasp with her minimal knowledge of the forge. Despite abandoning the childish crush he’d harboured for the headstrong little girl wise beyond her years in his youth, he’d gone back nearly every day since to chat and occasionally do more than bug her by dishing out a good joke or sharing his lunch, and something about him clicked within her small mind. 

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me.” She looked almost close to tears.

 

He sighed. “I guess I just didn’t want to have to say goodbye.”

 

“So this is about chivalry?” She huffed as she squeezed the ruined screw in her fist, the sharp ends protruding into the dimples of her bony palm. “And what do you mean goodbye? You don’t know what it’s going to be like out there.”

 

“You have no idea what battle is like.” He deadpanned.

 

“Neither do you.” 

 

“I guess I’ll find out.”

 

She sighed emptily. She never would have to, not as a poor daughter in the middle of Paris. Not when she couldn’t even punch enough to make a bruise. But nothing in the world made it right, not when she was only a year younger and would’ve been far more eligible had she been born a male. But this was her lot in life-- and she had to live with it. So, she did one of the only things that benefited the poor and their social standings, Christian morality and purity be damned. Her head pressed into his chest and her small arms wrapped around him in a hug as he reciprocated.

 

“You’ll write, won’t you?” She asked into his chest. He grunted in response. 

 

God, this was going to be a long morning.

 

“Look,” She finally pulled away after a moment. “I know that this is a horrible time, but--”

 

“You want me to patch up your window, don’t you?” He answered knowingly. She nodded, going back to her table and fishing out the bag of coins that her first customer had let her with and fished out several francs, copper and silver.

 

“Take these to the glass blower, tell him to ease up on the fan next time.” She dropped the francs in his outstretched hand. He studied the money before a frown appeared. “What?” She nearly laughed. 

 

“I need my screw back.” He pointed to her fist. 

 

“But it’s useless.” She countered as she handed it to him. He nodded.

 

“I know.” He took the stripped piece of metal and slid the small pile of coins onto the work table again. “But you gave me a good morning, so this one’s on me.”

 

“Jon, no, I can’t--”

 

“Just let me do it.” He pressed and he nudged the currency back to his friend. “It’s been the third time this year and it’s barely even March. I think I can spare twelve franc for a window pane.” With his screw in hand he turned and walked towards the door, before noticing the nail that Phoebe usually used to keep her door propped open was nowhere to be found. Peering down into his hand as Phoebe pretended to busy herself counting her coins, he bent over as he opened the door and set the strpped screw into the gap between the cobblestones and the dampened wooden edge of the door.

 

He gave Phoebe a quick once over and grinned as she waved to him, knowing he’d be back eventually. 

 

“Give my best to your dad.” She grinned back to him. He paused for a moment before the smile returned.

 

“Same to you.” He answered before walking out the door, leaving her alone in her workshop once again.

 

It didn’t last her long.

 

“Who was that?” A groggy voice echoed from the landing as the clank of his wooden leg dragged down the steps. Her head swiveled a bit to face her father but halted mid way as a tiny groan overtook her. 

 

“Jon, papa.” She answered. 

 

“Haven’t seen him in a while.” She saw through the corner of her eye he was lazily leaning against the wall like a confident felon about to watch a guard arrest the wrong man. Even the smug grin was telling, but Phoebe thought nothing of it. He reeked of spirits and was clearly still intoxicated and slumped over ungracefully despite being a head taller than she was. “I don’t need to worry about him asking for a blessing, do I?”

 

She drained as her lip trembled in elation, struggling to keep back a giggle. Even in a pathetically intoxicated state he was still good at cracking jokes. This must’ve been one of his better mornings. Of course the emptiness of their bank account certainly didn’t leave much laughter to be had, but she still had to take what she could get these days. The smile quickly disappeared as the realization dawned on her that even if she was interested in marriage it would likely never come. Jon was an unlikely aristocrat and even at thirteen and even if he survived the war he’d more than likely be shipped off to college in London seeing as he was already overdue to begin further education. One of the few things Phoebe could thank her father for was his desire to educate her enough to keep books and read as mass every once in a great while. 

 

With any form of further education attained, his parents would likely use him as a bargaining chip to get higher standing. After all, traders didn’t marry blacksmiths. 

 

And besides, she didn’t feel that way about him at all.

 

“We’re at war again.” She walked back behind the work table and brushed the money into the drawer, shutting it. If her father had the ulterior motive like he had had every once in awhile of swiping her earnings for more drinks it wouldn’t be coming easy. 

 

Not noticing his daughter’s movements at all a low whistle escaped his stubbled cheeks. “So we are.” He sounded utterly unconcerned.

 

“I’m never going to see him again.” She sat back down in her chair and pulled the rusted sword up from her feet to start working on it.

 

“Probably not.” He shrugged.

 

She stared at him. “Just how out of it are you?”

 

“Pretty far.” He followed with a small burp. She grunted. 

 

“And I’m guessing you’re not here to help out?” She questioned already knowing the answer. He shook his head. “Then what  _ are _ you here for?”

 

“A little pick-me-up.” He shoved himself free from the plastered wall and hobbled towards the other end of the forge, lamely reaching for a drawer before Phoebe swiveled on her stool and held the thing shut with her hip. He gave a dramatic groan.

 

She grimaced. “It’s not even eight in the morning! You should be-- I don’t know, sleeping, or something!”

 

“You sound  _ way _ too much like your mother.” He hunched over with half lidded eyes, as if trying to intimidate her to let him into the stash of money. A bony hand began to ease her hip from the drawer and she immediately pushed it off and eased her father’s head back to it’s neck with her soot covered index finger poised on his nose, clearing her throat as she breathed in the heavy scent of ale and liquor. 

 

“At least one of us does.” She bristled as he shrunk back with a pathetic whimper at her denial of his allowance. “I’m sick of you trying this! Why don’t you just get back to bed?” She attempted to reason with the man through her irritation, not even knowing if it was worth trying.

 

“Come on, sweetie! Just one glass-- that’s all I ask... Hey, that rhymed!”

 

She groaned as the girl suddenly wished she had a broom or something to gently prod him back to his room like some sort of tipsy ox. 

 

“Alright,” The blonde mumbled, sliding off the the stool between her father and her money. “that’s enough for now.” Phoebe declared as she gently nudged her parent so he stumbled back in a stupor, a laugh having overtaken him as he knocked into the wall again like a limp balloon. 

 

Lips pursed in a tight line, she grabbed the bucket of water kept handy for cooling and paused before deliberating that the fire needed to be extinguished before her father needed his senses snapped back to the surface. It was a miracle he was still standing by this point into his tangent. Tossing the bucket back into its corner as the fire gave a mighty hiss and crackled into a slow death, the twelve year old tugged the drawer violently open and grabbed the small pouch. In one swift movement she slammed the drawer shut, pocketed the money, and kicked the damaged sword over to her father as he keeled over, still giggling like a heretic high in the clouds. 

 

As she drunk in the sight of the broken man it occurred to her she just couldn’t bring herself to care. She’d watched him in her youth defend his stupid actions for the sake of his pride. 

 

“I hope whoever tossed that brick comes back!” She yelled as she grabbed the stripped screw from the door on her way out the door, leaving the door of the forge to slam shut as she pocketed her door wedge and walked off down the road.

 

***

 

The door to the tavern swung open, the sights and sounds of the sinful place one to behold and one certainly not meant for the likes of someone of her age. Of course, it wasn’t uncommon for children to be drinking wine or beer, but to view the source of intoxication at it’s heart as an ideal Christian girl was an experience Phoebe certainly didn’t relish and the sheer volume of it all nearly made her turn around and walk right back home, mother’s demands be damned. 

 

The light of candles and golden shadows shivered and shook in rapturous laughter along the stone walls and wooden floor, the carved pine columns offering some form of break to the massive room even at her somewhat impressive height. Through the hunched backs of mostly male patrons she could see the barmaids weaving through the tangled mess with mugs and glasses tilting dangerously in their dexterous hands as the vibrations ensured a difficult job.  

 

The clatter and clanging of drinks rang in her ears over the sounds of a well played viol, a burly man tucked off in the corner provided some sort of ambience over the helter skelter of the establishment. The shouts of orders, the laughs of the drunken fools, even the mundane chatter required shouting to ensure it’s proper delivery. 

 

Sucking his her gut as it twisted into knots, the twelve year old began weaving her way through the rotund patrons and clinch waisted prostitutes, small hands gripping the edges of her cloak to ensure nobody knew of her age or attempted to bother her. The absolute last thing she wanted was to cause a scene at this time of night in what had to be the busiest bar in the entire city. She still couldn’t believe she’d even gotten this far without getting lost, but per the instruction of her mother she needed to get her father back home by morning or there would be hell to pay.

 

Gulping back a yelp as a taller man nearly shoved her to the ground in his deteriorating state, she swerved towards the counter where every single stool was completely occupied. He would have to be at the bar. After all, it wasn’t like he had any friends to warrant him taking up a table or enough money to spare tipping the bar wenches. The trouble was her father was hardly the only man in the building to have a wooden leg. Oddly enough this seemed to be some sort of attraction spot for amputees and scum of the streets alike, the amount of men in uniform not a surprising conclusion.

 

Weaving her way along the stools towards the wall at the end of a seemingly endless bar, she snuck between patrons as nimbly as someone her size could. Not making a peep through the roaring sounds, she continued past her sixth seat before a large hand tightened around her cloak and she instinctively toppled forward to shake the grip as needles of fear shot through her back and stomach. The tactic failed spectacularly as the cloak’s button snapped free without a second passing and she was left to careen and collide with the dirty floor.

 

She could barely spit out the dirt and grime that had infiltrated her mouth before she was unceremoniously tugged upwards and toppled back into someone’s embrace. Before they could do anything further instinct took over as she growled and kicked in a desperate attempt to be free before being lifted gain and turned to face her captor. 

 

He was a rotund individual with several hog-like whiskers a sickly weathered gray, and before she could use her fists to pummel the living daylights out of the man he spoke. “Hey, I-it it’s awfully past your bedtime, ain’t it Ginny?” His head rolled with his words in a lame fashion.

 

Great. Just great. She was stuck with some sick idiot who thought she was someone else. This wasn’t going to end well unless she managed to get away fast. If he somehow thought she was this Ginny person she wouldn’t be able to count on his help to find her father, and besides, the several yellowed and missing teeth that seemed to quiver as he laughed offered little comfort to put her uneasiness to rest.

 

“Let go of me!” She gave the man a push and she was left to smack back to the floor and crawled away before he could process her movements or take her somewhere she didn’t want to end up. Taking her tactic and not bothering to waste time looking for her cloak, she slid along the floor between the mostly still legs of the patrons before rolling under a table. 

In the shadow of the surface above, she sighed and scratched the spot where she’d been grabbed and pushed up so that she was poised on her hands and knees.  

 

Apparently just walking around in the tavern covered and innocuous wouldn’t be getting her anywhere, especially now that her only shield was more or less lost forever. If she wanted to find her father and get him out of here, she’d have to be smarter than just marching into the battle stark naked.

 

Pausing for a moment of thought, she looked around for anything that could be of use. Settling on an abandoned stick that had rolled under the table across from her, she stretched her body and right arm out to grab it before a body smacked between her and the cane and an involuntary scream popped from her mouth as her hand shrunk and recoiled back to her chest. She needed something to nudge the legs aside so she could further identify by legs, and if she had to, prod her wayward sheep of a father back home.

 

She bit her lip and crawled a bit closer despite her shock. Shifting her body, she pressed the toe of her boot against the waifish man’s hollowed cheek as he rumbled with snoring, apparently lost in his hangover. Carefully nudging with as little leverage as she could apply as to not wake him, she turned his face away from her and once he continued his snoring, she allowed a sigh of relief and continued on her attempt to reach for the stick. 

 

Suddenly, she wobbled as she stretched, slowly losing her balance as she propped herself on one knee. Her fingertips brushed the edge of the wooden dowel before she folded and stabilized herself before she attempted again. One wrong move could wake up the man sleeping next to her and the outcomes to doing so were ones she certainly didn’t wish to explore. 

 

Inching ever so slightly forward until the cowlicks of her forehead were exposed to the candlelight outside of her table, she tried again to grab to stick and finally achieved a solid grip. Breathing slowly and drowning out the chaos around her, she slowed her movements as she lifted her tool up and over the drunkard until it was safely held in both hands. Upon closer inspection, the one end of the cane appeared to have a T shape to it, ideal for supporting a crippled person or one ravaged by age. 

 

Biting her lip as she studied the walking cane as her eyes fell to the whisp of a man still in pleasant sleep, she shook her head and set the stick on his stomach, now within plain view of anyone who could’ve dropped it. Studying the knees and lower limbs of the patrons above at her table and the veritable jungle of legs which awaited her, she sucked in a breath and cast one last look at the passed out man and the cane which laid poised. It would be a dead giveaway unless they were passed out and even then she would still need to tread on eggshells.  

 

Mumbling a silent prayer under she breath, she took the cane and charged forth into the tangle, hoping that whoever’s it was wouldn’t skin her alive for using it.

 

Within the span of ten minutes of delicately pushing legs aside, nothing telling was coming to her and there were no signs of her father. She’d barely skimmed half the tables, but she was quickly running out of patience for using her concocted method. By table number eleven she was nearing her wits’ end, nearly wanting to turn back and recheck her skimming. Leaning up against the one leg in the center, she rested and blew a lock of straw blonde hair from her forehead, braying in dissatisfaction. Why did this need to be so difficult? It was midnight! Didn’t these men have anything better to do?

 

Her thoughts turned to whacking her worthless father over the head for the hoops she would have to go through, fifth commandment be damned. 

 

Suddenly, boisterous laughter erupted above and before she could move away a pointed boot punted her in the arm as she was suddenly knocked into the legs across the table. She found herself staring up at the lucid brown eyes of someone who’d apparently been sober the whole time and was scowling down at the horrified twelve year old.

 

A panicked yelp escaped her as she scrambled to get away and hide once more and barely dodged the sober man’s hand as it reached down for her and sent her smashing between the gap of another chair and sent the patron in the chair down to the hardwood floor.

 

She heard shouting and cursing as several heads turned towards her, and Phoebe suddenly froze as one hundred eyes watched the frightened girl as sweat dripped down her alert face. Fatigue overcame her as she began to weave her way between the tables, bumping and knocking over several objects until an arm threw itself out in front of her and she barreled into it as a loud  _ snap _ and a scream echoed through the bar. 

 

The blood rushed to her face and the wind left her lungs as she was hoisted up by the collar of her shirt, barely catching her breath before a blow to her gut sent needles down her legs. The sinister glares and frothing anger of the man whose arm she’d unintentionally broken had spread to his bar mates as they rounded on the helpless girl as she started flailing in a desperate attempt to either escape or at least take one of them down with her.   

Then she remembered the cane. Readying herself by tightening her grip, the first man charged towards her to deliver a vengeful blow as she gritted her teeth and swung. The man snapped to the side and crashed into a table full of awed spectators and sent several full mugs of ale and wine ungracefully toppling to the floor in a cacophony of noise. She barely could ready herself for the next person before she was crippled by a punch to her side and a hand grabbing her arm. She growled as the man attempted to pry her only defense away.

 

“Let go you little bitch!” He snarled as he finally pried it away and she felt a  _ pop _ in her left shoulder as pain shot through and she wailed. Tears began to prick at her eyelids as she called for help not even knowing if anyone could or would come to her aid. 

 

There was a sudden clatter from across the room that shattered the tension in the air. A breathy, light-headed voice echoed in her ears as another blow came to her ribs. 

 

“Phoebe!” The sound of a screeching chair and wobbling tables surrounded her. 

 

“That’s my cane you asshole!” A grizzled voice snarled from behind her and the twelve year old collided with the floor as she slumped to the cold, dirty surface, unable to move. The man above her coughed out a rum soaked breath and was quickly tackled to the ground. 

 

“ _ Phoebe! _ ” The urgency was unmistakable. One of the other men joined in on the fight, diving over her as she tried to crawl away. 

 

The table behind her exploded as the glass and ceramic mugs atop it shattered and the panicked and dismayed shouts of patrons watching and participating in the bar brawl grew exponentially.    

 

Needles buzzed in her left arm as she nursed her wounds safely under a table that rocked and shook wildly. Glass shards and vulgar language were flying everywhere. Before she could even take another breath she scurried from underneath as the table exploded into splinters from the weight of a man being tossed atop it, shouting upon impact and narrowly crushing her. The horrid cacophony of the brawl sent her left and right, weaving through the tables as fast as her long legs could carry her. 

 

Quickly grabbing the bottom end of a shattered wine bottle, she stuck her good arm before her and held the shiv, thrusting her bottle forward. A howl of pain and vile cursing erupted from her right as a stray shard sliced through a man who got too close for comfort. She could see the door within her reach as it swung wildly with people running in and out of the quickly deteriorating establishment. But she couldn’t leave until she got her father out. 

A chair flew right in her direction from off the sidelines. She swerved, her balance leaving her as she narrowly missed impaling herself of her shiv and slid across a mostly undisturbed table and landed flat on her back as it wobbled and tilted under she weight, only for her weapon to fly out of her grip and shatter someplace lost and dark. The wind was knocked out of her again as she convulsed on the hardwood and people fought around her. She winced as something small and sharp cut into her right hand.

 

Struggling to move, breath, or make any sounds, Phoebe was left on the ground again, fight savvy as a ragdoll. 

 

A boot kicked into her waist as a man tripped and fell over her. She screamed and tried to wriggle away as the sudden weight smashed on top of her, leaving whatever breath she’d managed to regain puffed out like a deflated sheepskin. 

Then the weight subsided. The man had gotten up. Recognition crossed her mind she terror seized her. His limp arm swung crippled at his side whilst his good one held a chair leg, poised to bash his enemies head’s in with one good strike. There was a look of relish in his dark eyes as vengeance seemed to dribble from his lips. He balanced on his legs as he straddled the girl, patting the club readily on her chest as she screamed until he batted her chin, holding her jaw closed. The man leaned in close to see every grain of stubble and unwashed pore, making his presence all the scarier. 

 

“ _ Bonne nuit _ ,” His beer-soaked words sent shivers down her spine. She reached or something, anything to get the upper ground. His leg crushed her right arm. He raised the chair leg. She shut her eyes.

 

There was a  _ pop _ . She felt fluid dripping onto her shirt, a drop landing on her chin. The weight slackened and left with a sound of impact to her left. Then someone was picking her up. She opened her eyes. Her father was helping her up, more concern on his face than what she’d seen in years of indifference without sobriety. She sucked a breath through her teeth as he grabbed her injured hand, and without any words, dugged his fingers into the slice on her palm and extracted the exposed glass shard as she screamed bloody murder, even her worst sounds not even registering in the chaos around them. 

 

“Come on.” He urged as she tried to move but failed.

 

“I think I broke my arm,” She whimpered. 

 

“Nonsense!” He grabbed her immobile left arm. “Hold still. This’ll hurt more.”

 

Before she could protest she was pressed down to the floor and her left arm was straightened as her father maneuvered around her to get it in place. With a painful sound she felt something horrible dig into her joint. A rush of blood. Her back arched with her shout. She smacked into the wooden floor again. Then she wiggled her fingers. He’d done it… somehow.

 

Where did he learn to do that?

 

“You’re not drunk,” She face him as he sat her up. He didn’t look his best. His face was peppered with small bruises, and his right eye was swollen shut and an angry shade of purple. His blonde hair was messed and there was a shiny spot on his stubbled where a streak of blood had recently scabbed over.

 

He gave her a cheesy grin, revealing a missing canine tooth. “Yup.”

 

“Oh God…” She drained, realizing the agony he’d put her through. Before she could stop herself she punched him in the stomach and he cursed, but recovered rather quickly, seeming to somehow realize that he deserved it.  

 

He wheezed and coughed as he chuckled at her expression. “You’re my daughter. I’d never let anything happen to you.” He wrapped her in a light hug as his expression darkened. He let her go, moving past her towards the man who’d attempted to take her life who was stirring and crawling away. 

 

He was quickly halted as the man leapt up, apparently banking on the hope that he would come close. A wayward punch connected with her father’s jaw and he keeled backwards into Phoebe’s lap. She screamed as he pulled himself up and delivered a decisive kick between the other man’s legs. 

 

He howled and fell back, massaging the area as the former blacksmith struck the opportunity and tackled him back to the ground. One blow to the nose. One to the cheek. One to his eye. The man’s good arm pushed up, forearm blocking the advance and shoving up to catch the other man’s windpipe. Her father choked out a snarl as he was pushed upward and no exposed. Even with a one armed opponent he was certainly no skilled fighter. A knee punted into his stomach and he was thrown back at his daughter, throwing up on the ground next to him as he sputtered in defeat, incapacitated for only a moment. His hand slinked into his pocket and he pressed the occupant into her hand. It was a knife. 

 

She didn’t hesitate. She knew she had to use it.

 

The man dove for her father. She pounced and knocked him back, now with something to fight for. Rolling along the floor, the child bounced on the man’s stomach and aimed her knife for his good arm. 

 

She missed, fumbling as the blade wedged into a crack in the hardwood. The man delivered a punch to her jaw, the impact knocking her to her side as she wedged the knife free and got it towards her chest.

 

The man landed on top, crushing her again. She thrashed, but was helpless under his weight, her knife stuck between the two of them at a useless angle, and already she could feel the blade turning inwards towards her chest, the sharpened tip digging slowly into her breast. She gritted her teeth and stilled herself, not willing to accidentally stab herself to death. 

 

The man laughed. A drop of blood fell from his nose onto her cheek as she cringed. “Looks like the little bitch had some bite after all.” He concluded as the weight on the knife increased. She felt a cut blossoming on her bosom. “Looks like you’re losing, girl. I’m not surprised in the end. A woman couldn’t fight anymore than she could use her head.”

 

She winced. A thought entered her head. Sucking in what would’ve been her last breath, she pulled her head back and slammed her forehead into her captor’s, sending him reeling upwards as he cursed, mouth closed and lips pursed. Acting fast, she pulled the blade and turned it upwards towards the ceiling. The man thrust himself down again, smiling wickedly. 

There was no sound. Only the sudden loss of sinister joy to his face that was followed by a cough. Phoebe shut her eyes instinctively as another cough rattled her opponent and blood sprayed her face. 

 

She felt the sticky red liquid seeping in around the handle of the blade, saturating her fingers. She opened her eyes again, and matched his as they slowly clouded over. The weight on her suddenly seemed to ease up. The girl wriggled free from beneath her fallen opponent and wiped the blood from her face with her sleeve, whimpering as pain shot through her right hand, the cut having reopened itself. Confidence nonetheless surged through her, the drunkard dead on the floor. 

 

She’d won her first battle… not cleanly, but she certainly could’ve been in worse shape. Her eyes fell to her father, who was staring up at her in complete and utter shock, good eye wide and glassy. She paused as she looked over to the dead man and extracted the knife from his gut, not grimacing in the slightest. 

 

Flicking the blood off of the weapon, she tossed it towards her father, the blade scraping the skimming across the floor before coming to a stop in front of his wooden leg. Her face was nonchalant for a moment before quickly shifting to one of annoyance. She held out her good hand, and he took it.

 

“You’re going to be getting an earful from mom.” He remarked and followed with a small hiccup.

 

“You’re going to be getting an earful from  _ both _ of us.” She retorted.

 

The fight having died down by this point with a crotchety old man cheering and gleefully waving his returned cane in the air amongst a sea of comatose and bleeding bodies, the father and daughter stumbling out of the bar. 

 

Her father grinned. “I haven’t fought like that for a long time.”

 

“I know.” Phoebe nodded before noticing the expectation that shone clear and bright on his usually sullen face. “And thank you, for helping me.”

 

“That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.” He shook his head but the smile remained. 

 

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to say it again--”

 

“You said your friend was off to the war we’re apparently in?” He cut her off.

 

Phoebe winced as a gust of wind cut through her right hand, sucking in a breath through her teeth. “Papa, what are you…” Two and two came together. “No.” She quickly shook her head. “That’s not going to be happening unless you’ve been praying that I--”

 

“Grow a pair?” Her father cackled as Phoebe turned beet red. “Trust me when I say you’re more of a man than any of those asses in there. Who’s to say a woman can’t enlist?”

 

She scoffed. “The law? The guards who laugh at me when they see me at the forge? The idiot who nearly killed me tonight?”

 

“Until you stopped him.” He corrected.

 

“Mama would never--”

 

“Your mother would never let me go to that tavern in the first place if she didn’t know I needed it. It was just a late night. Thankfully I’ve got the perfect soldier to escort me home.” He waved off her concerns with a playful gesture. “And you keep that knife. Lord knows you’ll be needing it more than I will.” 

 

Clutching the grip in her good hand and walking behind her stumbling parent as the sights and sounds of the bar wavered off with time and distance, the girl and her father continued on in silence through Paris, heavy thoughts of each other dragging them all the way back home.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Esmerald, Age 14**

 

There had been several low points in Esmerald’s short life, and being a simple beggar to keep bread on the table were not moments he savoured, regardless of what it paid. More often than not he was only given staunch glances and what sympathy he and Djali could garner didn’t amount to more than a few francs dropped out of the public's eye with mumblings of  _ manouche misérable  _ under begrudging acknowledgement.

 

Not that Esmerald would disagree. He certainly didn’t look his best and hadn’t in years. He didn’t expect sympathy from people, but the least they could do was share his feelings of resentment for doing what he needed to survive the most honest way he could-- even if honest and personally degrading seemed to go hand in hand for those with few options to speak of.

 

And he wasn’t really  _ above _ stealing, if it came to that after a particularly bad day. Years of sleight of hand trickery under Izaak’s care had given him more than enough to replicate and the transition from entertainer to urchin, while ungraceful, came easy enough when absolutely necessary. 

That being said, he didn’t like the feeling of taking something even when he knew he needed it-- be it a piece of bread or a pouch of coins that could keep him going another week. It was the simple knowledge that he hadn’t earned it as he had when he worked and entertained. Even if the thing were as simple as the aforementioned piece of bread, it would be dry and bitter on his tongue and hard to swallow more than a bite. Guilt would haunt him even after he’d spent the money or eaten the food long past a point of redemption or repayment.

 

So he stuck with begging… at east then he could say his plight was honest.

 

In his time alone he’d encountered the unsavory sort as many other gypsies had in their migrations. He’d had run ins with nincompoops high off their asses with ale or simply ineffectual citizens viewing him as a mismatched piece not fitting into a tightly assembled puzzle. He’d had brushes with the law and the occasional guard and always had managed to flat out escape rather than lower himself further by blubbering or smooth talking as he’d seen others do before him. If the former didn’t work, a hot day in the stocks wasn’t the worst punishment in the world-- at least it hadn’t been because Djali somehow had the skill to break padlocks with his teeth, a talent Esmerald still hadn’t quite figured out and didn’t want to try himself.

 

But despite his utter disdain for begging and his easy escapes in the past, he got the feeling that this town’s patience with him and Djali were wearing thin. It had taken the little goat upwards of two hours to escape the guard that was holding him and freeing his master was a chore in it of itself already not counting the increased supervision by the stockade. It seemed as if the boneheads in this town were somehow evolving to grow spines and had he been literally anyone or anything else in this province Esmerald might’ve brought himself to feel pride or at least reassurance in law enforcement.

 

But he was none of those things, and by now the benefits and food scraps were beginning to become outweighed by the prospects of prolonged imprisonment or an execution. The absolute last thing Esmerald wanted to do was try his luck especially given what horrors Izaak had been put through that night in Dijon’s custody.

 

So, he figured his best bet was to leave with interest. What little savings he did have wouldn’t get him far by walking and that didn’t even account for the fact that until he got ahold of a map there was no telling where he could try next. However, Esmerald had been biding his time for long enough as it was scraping together the last few details of his plan and with winter coming the last thing he wanted was to screw up seasonal timing and be stuck homeless in hell for the winter. All of his desires and needs pointed towards a horse.

 

None of the average folk in this town lived in large establishments, so quietly stealing one from any random stable risked either capture or vigilante justice. He was bound to wake someone up unless the house was somehow abandoned at midnight in mid October.

 

That meant that the only place that seemed quiet enough was ironically safer during the day and the stables were removed from the rest of the three story building and decent tree cover allowed for a swift and easy exit to the west. 

 

It had been easy enough to scrounge up a carrot from a trash pile and some wild grape leaves from the surrounding compound. Hiding his few material possessions safely behind a blackcurrant bush and having Djali bite through the weakened lock, he managed to lure the beast closest to the door out of the stables. He’d barely calmed the horse from it’s stranger danger and was going towards his hiding place to mount his things atop it’s saddle when he heard someone shouting at him from a distance.

 

“Hey!” She yelled as she dropped the straw stuffed basket hidden in the crook of her arm and broke into a sprint towards him. “You! Stop!”

 

He spared the horse and the field behind him a quick glance. At the speed she was running and the distance she was at there was no hope for him to get Djali, his belongings and himself onto the horse for a successful getaway. His hand tightened around the reigns as he realized he was losing time. 

 

Without a second thought he whistled and slung his bare foot over it’s back, giving the beast he now occupied a shift kick to the side. The horse broke into a run as Djali brayed in confusion and darted from his hiding place, clearly confused to his master’s actions as he tried to catch up with the horse. 

 

The girl was unphased in her efforts and quickly saddled another horse. Within the span of five seconds she was chasing him and his ride through a grassy field frozen under the rising sun, the buildings behind them quickly shrinking with distance. 

 

Esmerald tried to curtail his terror. This girl was not simply content letting him ride off with one out of what had been fifteen horses? She was clearly affluent and whoever she was her family could certainly afford not only the horses and stables but from the details on her dress alone he knew they could afford to replace whatever he’d taken. Why she had what she had given her darker skin color was slightly perplexing but of little consequence to him. Not only that, but she seemed at the very least familiar with riding and was gaining on him quickly.  

 

He growled as he snapped the reigns and the horse veered right-- too far right. His legs began to  ache as the tradeoffs of riding bareback were catching up to him like the girl had been. A swift bump from beneath left his head smooshed into the mane and by the time he looked up again and coughed out in disgust the distance between the young lady and himself was rapidly shrinking. The gypsy boy could see beads of angry sweat on her forehead that matched her deadly scowl.   

 

He clenched his teeth as he leaned down into the horse. If he could zip past her as she came towards him, he’d be able to get enough time to grab Djali and ride down the side path towards the ravine. She’d be out of luck finding him and if he were fortunate enough he’d slip town before any authorities could find or stop him. The gap was narrow. He swung his body to the right as he veered away from her suddenly outstretched grasp.

 

What he hadn’t prepared for was the sudden impact of the girl’s weight as she hopped from her horse and mounted Esmerald’s, narrowly avoiding what would've been a possibly fatal collision with the ground. He screamed as she grabbed his back and wrenched him from the horse with her own weight, sending them both toppling off the galloping beast in a swift and painful motion. 

 

He felt his foot and upper back smack into the cold grass as the girl yelped beneath him, her hold tightening as his jaw snapped shut over his tongue and the coppery taste of blood tingled in his mouth. His captor had narrowly avoided being crushed by him and was instead hugged him tightly from the waist upwards, arms snaked around the width of his small intestines.   

 

The boy and the girl both caught their breath as the wind reentered their lungs and a powerful aching bruise began to welt up on his shoulder blades. Both of them rattled with coughs as the dust from the horse's trot settled atop them both and they were left on the ground to recuperate. 

 

This peacefulness barely lasted either teenager thirty seconds as Esmerald quickly tore free from her poor hold and sprinted in the first direction he could see. He only lasted a mere twenty feet before his foot shot pain up his sore leg and kept him from continuing. The gypsy cried out in pain as he tumbled ungracefully back into the earth as he heard the girl finally get up. 

 

“So,” He heard as he lifted his head off the dirt and spat. “Do you want to do this the easy way, or the hard way?”

He rolled over, his foot sending waves of pain up his ankle as he cringed and clutched it with his hand. “What’s the easy way?”

 

“You get up, and help me reign in the horses you stole.” She glared as she clutched her right shoulder, rolling it a few times. 

 

“Well to be fair that was a stupid strategy.” He acknowledged as he matched her glare.

 

“Duly noted.” She scowled harder as her brow knitted. “But I’m not here to listen to you-- I’m here to get back the horses.” 

 

“Why do you even care?” He snapped as he sat up, clutching his foot in a similar manner. “You’ve got thirty of them!”

 

“The one you took wasn’t mine!” She countered, jabbing him in the chest and nudging him back an inch further. “Almost none of them are-- and you don’t want to get on Demonte’s nerves unless you fancy a fractured spine.” She sighed. “So unless you want to be the one to tell him his prized horse is roaming the countryside halfway to Andorra I suggest you get up.”

 

“Noble or peasant?” Esmerald quickly tacked on, still not sold. 

 

“Get up kid.” Her gaze narrowed. He glared, but softened and acquiesced, suddenly wishing he hadn’t asked. If he wanted to get out of here, the identity of the owner suddenly seemed of little consequence. It was better not knowing. After all, there was no judging someone based on their wealth or status-- usually they were cruel thick and thin alike. 

 

At least, he’d met no one who could prove him wrong yet.

 

“Fine.” He glared as he rolled his ankle. “But it’s not like I can do any running for a while.”

 

“Then don’t.” She quipped. “Lucky for you Demonte is currently occupied. He’ll be out of here by noon if he’s quiet.” The girl’s head listed upwards where the sun rose towards it’s climax and peeked through the clouds of the day before.

 

He crossed his arms. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a carrot or something, do you?” She turned to face him and raised an eyebrow, allowing him a better look at his piper.  

 

She looked not a day past seventeen standing barely an inch higher than the gypsy himself. Her sandy complexion was a few shades darker than his own-- akin to that of a pinecone. Her silky dark brown hair streamed down her back in gentle frizzes. The tight fitting swoop necked dress gracefully curved into a tightly bound corset, the likes of which shimmered with a golden stripe clearly visible when she lifted her arm and revealed it from where it was nestled under the delicate pink lace and blood red silk. 

 

It was a sign of her place amongst a group he’d only seen fleeting glances of in his youth: prostitutes. The likes of such people were often mere background characters not acknowledged since he’d left his home with Izaak. It wasn’t a discussed subject between him or any other adult in his life, and as far as he could tell they suffered.

 

Not to the lengths that gypsies did, surely, but they were outcasts still in some ways. It seemed that a golden band, one in any shade of yellow, and around this area a clinch in the waist, was the surefire mark of someone who sold and gave out their bodies to those consumed by greed and lust. But he’d seen them sauntering about, merely pretty faces to those who wanted them. He’d also seen one or two grabbed and unceremoniously dragged off screaming by guards. It seemed to be both a blessing and a curse… such identification was a heavy burden to bear indeed. Those who were taken off-- at least the ones that Esmerald had seen-- hadn’t been doing anything to infringe the law aside from just standing around loitering similar to that of the gypsies, entirely innocent of wrongdoing and not deserving to be treated with such disrespect. Even if he couldn’t quite understand the concept of selling oneself to earn a living, it didn’t phase him. After all, one needed to earn their keep the best way they knew how, that much he could understand.

 

But unfortunately for his sake, it seemed like that was where the similarities between him and this girl ended.  

 

Her demeanor towards him clearly wasn’t friendly and from what he’d seen so far she wasn’t interested in playing nice. Playing fair, maybe, but not to his benefit. 

 

She took a bag from a pouch at her waist and dusted off the dirt, tossing it to him without a word. He tugged it open. Oats. Fine. He could work with that. 

 

“He’ll gladly take those if you click your tongue. My horse can’t be that far off.” She looked out to the field of heather and coneflowers amidst brambles and blackcurrants. With that she started to walk off into the plains, dress parting the long grass. 

 

“You coming or are you just going to stare at me?” She turned back.

 

“You’re following me?” He countered as he rolled his ankle again and started walking as well as he could. She snorted in disbelief. 

 

“And risk you never coming back? How stupid do you think I am?”

 

He had to give her that. If anything he should’ve expected it given her brutal take down. He quickly caught up to her as she nodded, the pair walking on in silence for a while as Esmerald clutched the oats in his fist as he limped beside the girl. 

 

“Can I at least know your name?” He pressed as a gust of wind pushed past the pair. 

 

“Are you going to tell me yours?”

 

“Wasn’t planning on it.” He admitted. 

 

“Then no.” She answered. 

 

“You know I probably shouldn’t ask,” His ankle throbbed. “But do you have any idea on where I could go next?” 

 

There was a moment of silence as his companion looked at the ground and sighed irately. 

 

“There’s a map back inside. If you turn out not to be a scoundrel and help me get my horse back, maybe I’ll put in a good word with my mother.”

 

“ _ Maybe _ ?” Esmerald gaped. “This is the easy way?”

 

“Yup.” She gave a nod. 

 

“What’s the hard way?”

 

“I knock you over and get Buford to deliver you to the nearest guard. I’m assuming the easy way sounds easier now, doesn’t it?” A sly grin curved up her rosy lips.   

 

“I never agreed to the easy way.” Esmerald tempted. 

 

“Would you rather be on the ground waiting to be arrested?” She countered. 

 

“I’m saying this would probably go easier for both of us if you helped me walk. You’re the one who jumped off her own horse to tackle me and injured my ankle.”

 

She looked for a moment as if she was about to retort, but instead her lips pressed into a firm line as she begrudgingly nodded. She took a breath. “So I help you walk, you help me reign in the horses, and I put in a word for my mother to lend you a map? Sounds like I’m getting less in the end.”

 

“Well it’s not like I can just pay you off, right?”

 

The wheels began to turn in both their heads as Esmerald gulped back his own stupidity at realizing his foolish words and the girl smiled again with her amber eyes at half lid. 

 

“We’ll work on that, perhaps.” She responded. “Maybe the easy way could also entail a horse, if you’re up to a bit more of a challenge.”

 

“I’m listening.” Esmerald crossed his arms, suddenly interested in this if it meant passage out of the town and potentially to a city with sanctuary. He knew better than to assume prostitution and his limits could happily coincide, but if it didn’t actually come to them he was more than willing to listen until they did. 

 

But she was still setting the terms. He’d have to be more careful with what he said in the future around her. 

 

“I didn’t actually say what it was, did I? You seem content to take a leap of faith.” She guessed with a shrug. “A map, your things, a horse for the road? Definitely sounds like a deal to me.” 

 

It did sound tempting-- if he were an idiot. Esmerald knew better than to take a deal blind without knowing the consequences. He tried not to laugh. “What do you take me for? Until you give me a better idea, I’m not taking it.” 

 

“Fine.” She grinned knowingly. “Suit yourself.”

 

“Don’t try to extort me.” He turned with a near growl. “I’m getting you your horse and getting the hell out of this town, map or no map.”

 

“Horse or no horse.” She echoed. “Plan or no plan?”

 

“Why are you being so secretive?” He shot back to her confidence. 

 

“I’m not being secretive,” She defended. “I just can’t predict the future. If you want my guarantee on something the only thing I can do is promise there won’t be sex involved.”

 

“Well  _ that’s  _ reassuring.” He rolled his eyes, groaning as the edge of the field began to steadily bleed into a rushing brooke with sparse trees in a pitifully beautiful autumn setting, the edges of orange and gold creeping into their veins. It was exactly where Esmerald had wanted to be not half an hour prior.   

 

“We all have our limits.” She replied simply. “I’m not really one of them and I don’t want to be one.”

 

“Then why the stripe?”

 

“Guilt by association.” She grimaced slightly. “The last thing I want to do is be stuck in a brothel for the rest of my life.”

 

“So you’re pious?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“So you don’t hate me then.”

 

“Not by default, no, This horse thing isn’t helping, but you’ve done more than most of them would-- no offense.” 

 

He glared as a rustle came from the bushes and they both froze in their tracks, silent as stone. “Offense taken, and it’s not exactly like you gave me any choice.”

 

Her voice dipped to a whisper. “Well then now to you next time to choose your horse more carefully.”

 

He opened his mouth to retort but the madame’s daughter immediately shushed him, clenching her square jawline. The sound of rustling echoed in both their ears as the splashing of water signified that the beast of their hunt was thirsty and refreshing itself at the water’s edge. 

 

Through the creeping branches of a tree they watched the black beauty in its most natural state, both silently scheming. The girl on tactics of capture and the gypsy on a similar tactic. That wasn’t to say escape hadn’t occurred to him if only briefly. He was quick to remember how useful bareback riding was to him and that aside from that he was above breaking what he’d now more or less agreed to, regardless of his intentions or previous words. 

 

She’d been helping him walk since they’d neared the end of the field and she hadn’t even tried to extort him any further. It was a tense and uneven trust, but it was there-- if only barely-- and he didn’t even know her name yet. He didn’t even know if he ever would.

 

But against all odds, he felt a slight sense of duty disregarding his fear of Delmonte and of potentially being turned in to the local authorities. The strangest part was he found himself questioning his companion because he hardly knew what would come out of her mouth next. It was like a game.

 

A game of nails and walking on eggshells; but a game nonetheless.

 

“That’s Ares alright.” The girl concluded in her lowered voice. “You know what to do.”

 

Esmerald paused in thought for a moment. Pica had never been quite so calm around him initially and he still considered himself a novice threat around horses, especially one he’d flat out stolen and most likely scared half to death. 

 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He voiced his thoughts to the daughter. 

 

“The deal was you get back the horse you stole. It’s out of my hands now.” She shrugged, narrowing her eyes after doing so. 

 

Realizing he lacked a better option or even much of a choice altogether, Esmerald clutched the pouch of oats and slowly moved out from behind the shade of the spindly tree as the horse continued consuming the brooke. 

 

His breath stilled as he crept towards the side, the features of the beast coming more into focus as its head suddenly swiveled in his direction, black pupils trained on the new presence in the area as it’s ears twitched from a buzzing fly. Thrusting his dirty hand into the oats and taking a generous handful, he clicked his tongue and tentatively held out the prize to the horse.  

The horse paused for a moment as if nervous, but walked up to him and before Esmerald could react any further the horse’s wet muzzle was pressing against his palm as he ate the provided oats. 

 

He heard whispering. He could see the girl beckoning him to come over. Complying as he simply moved his hand and Ares followed, she moved out of the tree and immediately the beast seemed much calmer than what he had displayed in front of Esmerald. 

 

He looked at her for explanation as the horse moved away from his hand and he wiped his empty, slimy hand on his deep purple pants. She gently patted his mane and took a coil of rope from her shoulder. 

 

“Demonte’s a regular. Ares and I have had a lot of time to spend together.” Suspicion clawed at his gut at the sight of the rope. He must’ve looked tense because she immediately looped it around the black beast’s neck. “I’m not turning you in yet.”

 

“ _ Yet _ ?” He blanched.

 

“Like I said we’ll work something out.” She replied simply.

 

“Why leave me dangling?” He crossed his arms, patience wearing thin.

 

“Because frankly it’s kind of fun making the robber squirm.” She grinned as she tightened the knot of the rope like a noose. “Besides if I gave you a definitive answer it would put you ahead of me and that is something I’m not keen on doing-- not when we still have another horse to find.”

 

He scowled. “Why do you keep treating me like I’ve agreed to this deal?”

 

“Because like it or not the alternative is scary enough that you’ll say yes eventually.”

 

“Not until you sweeten the deal.”

 

She grumbled. “What is it with you gypsies-- always trying to turn the tables and get more than you deserve?”

 

“Maybe if you took a second to consider the hell that my life has been than you’d realize I’m weary of taking an unknown leap into prostitution with no questions asked!” He snapped. 

 

“And I told you it wouldn’t involve sex!” She shot back.

 

“And did it ever occur to you that I’m a human being who might just have higher standards than selling himself to someone else?”

 

At this she gave a mocking snort. “Kid, do you really think half the people in the world get that choice? It’s called the world’s oldest profession for a reason. You get your dignity, fine, but remember there’s always a new low-- even for you.”

 

He fell silent for a moment, his anger cooling as the realization dawned on him that he actually was fortunate to have such a thing when so many others didn’t. He’d never come close to it since the day he’d watched his mother die. 

 

“Well,” He started. “Like it or not I  _ have _ that choice; and I don’t intend to go low. Not when I’ve already been there.”

 

“Yeah?” She tested. “Well don’t knock it till you try it. There’s a big difference between rape and prostitution.”

 

“You think I don’t know that?” He gaped as the pair started to walk back towards the field, rustling coming from the edge of the fledgling forest. 

 

“Maybe.” She shrugged. “A lot of the girls don’t until we spell it out for them.”

 

“And what do you tell them?”

 

She sighed. “That desperation can make people do awful things. It can make them question their value, their worth, their limits. Living the life of pleasing people isn’t of high calling but there’s something rich to be had. The way my mother saw it was that when you consent, there’s no guilt, no fear. If you let the feelings reach you through that, it becomes something like nothing else in the world. All you do is show your feelings to the men and you reap what you sow.”

 

“You make it sound easy.” He raised an eyebrow.

 

“That’s what we tell the girls who are hesitant. My mother used to get frantic visits in the night about girls who panicked midway through a session and shut down. It takes a certain kind of person to do the work they do, and you never really know your limits until you’ve tried it.”

 

“So you’re saying you think I have what it takes.” He concluded.

 

“Maybe.” She nodded as a familiar looking shape trotted behind a bramble bush and she released a high pitched whistle. “And maybe you’re selling yourself short. We’re always looking for new recruits to open the evening show-- get the men riled up. Besides,” Her horse made its way to her and she took the reins in her free hand. “We’ve been getting more and more women lately. Our one guy could probably use a precursor to get a bit extra on the right nights.”

 

“And what if I don’t have what it takes?” The gypsy countered. “What if I change my mind?”

 

She shrugged. “The ones who run off usually have to leave town-- but that’s an occasion that happens once in a blue moon. Most of them make their peace with it.” She handed the rope for Ares to Esmerald. “And if you don’t there’s always somewhere else.”   

 

He huffed. “You’ll just let me go?” 

 

“That’s usually the deal with mother, or  _ madame _ , as she prefers professionally.” 

 

“And no sex.” He repeated. 

 

“You’re like, what, thirteen? Not beyond burlesque, no.”

 

“Fourteen, actually.” 

 

“And lo and behold the thief has an age.” Her brows raised in sarcasm.

 

“Don’t let it grow on you.” Esmerald answered with a slight chuckle. “I’ve got a lot to think about.”

 

“I guess you do.” She mused.

 

Without another word the girl mounted her horse and Esmerald, despite his better judgement, mounted Ares. The pair rode back in near complete silence, allowing the time and the potential to stew with only the wind rushing in their ears and the occasional bird’s call to shatter the silence of the plains. Within barely five minutes the sight of the large impressive structure that was the brothel began to grow in size until finally, the girl guided her horse to a stop about a stonesthrow from the stables and Ares followed her lead. 

 

“I’ve held up my end.” He reminded her as they led the horses back into the stable.

 

“Yes you have.” She agreed. “But do you think you’re ready to accept this deal… the easy way?” 

 

“Over the hard way?” He countered. “We’ll see.”

 

She smiled confidently. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

 

“Let’s see what your mother thinks first?” She nodded and extended her hand.

 

“Cerise.”

 

“Esmerald.”

 

They were less than in inch from shaking when a loud distressed bleating came from the bushes and in less than a second’s passing Djali was firmly at Cerise’s front, nudging her away with all the grace of a swinging axe blade. He was about to knock her down when Esmerald whistled and got his attention. The goat looked in suspense between the two and slowly backed away towards his master, his large pupils trained solely on the girl before them both. 

 

“And now you’ve met Djali.” He supplied. Cerise stared in slight shock. “He stays with me.”

 

Without a second glance and still in a daze, the keeper's daughter nodded wordlessly, and the three of them walked onwards into the back door of the brothel, steam pouring out the open orifice.  

 

“You bring back a husband yet, Cerise?” A bedraggled voice shouted as they entered.

 

“Har har. This is Esmerald. He’s here to chat with  _ madame. _ ” She enunciated her mother's title in a comedically snobbish way that left the voice in hysterics and Esmerald with a weary smile that disappeared when he realized the voice was laughing at him. 

 

Or more specifically, the idea. 

 

“Good luck getting past her today! She’s been in a piss poor mood since Chantel left.” The person laughed as they turned to face the daughter with a red, sweaty face as Esmerald watched from the doorway and Djali watched from between his legs.

 

She was easily well into middle age with a round face and small eyes. Her plump figure was covered in flour and drenched in sweat and it became apparent to Esmerald how hot the room was. The scent of rosemary and bread wafted through the air and the woman was carrying a platter of glistening rolls. 

 

It was tempting, sure, but the last thing he wanted was to get more acquainted with this place seeing as he still wasn’t exactly sure what awaited him past the door out. 

 

Cerise, on the other hand, grabbed one and tossed it to him before he could object. He fumbled as he caught it, and this caused a fair bit of cackling to echo in the room as both women laughed unabashed. This was the loosest behavior he’d ever seen from the ordinary and for a moment he was left to wonder if he’d fallen off the face of the earth and landed in some sort of strange alternate reality. 

 

Well, he was still barefoot, so that possibility was out the window. 

 

“Eat it kid!” The cook remarked. “You look like skin and bones.” This technically was true, but Esmerald still felt a slight sting at the remark. Neither him nor Djali had had a nutritionally adequate meal since they’d left the eastern border.

 

But out of politeness he tore it in half and passed the bigger of the two down to Djali. The goat certainly wasn’t picky, but he was often on the shorter end of the stick with sharing food. Besides, fresh bread usually soothed the poor thing when he was anxious off his rocker and this morning had been nothing if not one for the record books on his heart rate. He ate it happily as Esmerald did while the two women made casual small talk. 

 

He’d swallowed the last of it when the large woman sashayed over to him and grinned. “There’ll be more where that came from, that much I know. Where are my manners?”

 

“Sorry for the warm greeting. Paige hasn’t had a new recruit in a while.” Cerise covered as the matron tugged him into the kitchen and Djali followed, narrowly avoiding slipping on the slick porcelain tiled floor. 

 

“He’s quite a specimen.” She remarked as he blushed with sweat. “If beauty were only skin deep I’d say gut him now and leave the rest because you don’t see looks like these everyday!”

 

“Well the jury’s still out on that one but we’ll see.” Cerise shrugged. “I was thinking he could be a bit of an opening act for Luc.”

 

“That would be a fine thing!” Paige remarked. “Good luck convincing  _ madame _ . Like I said, she’s not in the best of spirits right now. Maybe a new one will brighten her day a bit… preferably before lunch.” Her eyes darted to the sun as it rose higher into the sky, the gray clouds now a figment of the past with a wispy cover of white barely filtering the golden rays of the orb in the azure sky.

 

“With all luck, maybe.” Cerise rolled her eyes. “Thanks for the heads up.”

 

“You’re quite welcome dear. Now go on. Last I heard from Buford she’s fuming in her study.”

 

With that, the woman went back to her things and Cerise and Esmerald continued on, Djali happily accounted for by the cook. The front hall was an ornate room painted a lovely beige and a fantastically ornate wooden fireplace smouldered in silence. The sparse furnishings left the lovely oak parquet in glorious condition and the colors contrasted nicely with the dark cherry baseboards which lines the lower halfer of the wall. Several oil paintings of men and women hung on the walls, their identities a mystery to Esmerald as Cerise led him through the silent hall and up a set of stairs to the second floor landing. Laced wooden crown moulding peered down at them from the arched ceiling and dripped into the edges of the walls like an immaculate, dark creeping ivy. The two wrought iron candelabras hung idle in their place and a ladder laid ready against a bare spot on the wall. It was by far the most ornate room the gypsy had ever been in and he’d barely passed the threshold not ten minutes prior.

 

“This is our private residence.” Cerise explained as she led him down the long hall. “All the girls and Luc share their work loads to keep the place running with mother and myself. You’ll likely just be cleaning things to start out.”

 

“Is the pay good?” He wondered aloud. Cerise snorted.

 

“Why would I even bother giving you the tour if it wasn’t? That’s one of the better aspects of the job and you probably won’t find anywhere else. We’re talking several hundred francs per customer.”

 

“But I’m not doing any of that.” He pointed out. 

 

“And therefore you’ll be paid less.” She stated matter-of-factly.

 

“How much less?”

 

“Don’t know yet. That’s kind of why we’re seeing my mother about this.” She answered as she came to a stop at a lovely set of french doors and twisted the gilded iron handles, swinging the set open as light poured into the hall. Esmerald’s bare feet touched the soft surface of a carpet as he felt a shiver down his spine. It was a lovely color of creamy stone framed by cherrywood moulding and baseboard. The carpet beneath him was a subtle sandy gold and soft blue so intricately woven he could see himself getting lost in their patterns. Cerise stood at the edge of the big circular room, a tall yet stout figure standing before a window with curtains half drawn and staring out into the forested area below.

 

“Daughter?” The woman remarked as she focused solidly on her reflection in the glass, her small eyes darting to the reflection of the figures behind her. “Is there something wrong? You disappeared after you left to get Monsieur Gabriel’s horse and he’s still waiting in the parlor.”

 

Cerise’s eyes widened, as if only just remembering her task prior to her unfortunate meeting with the gypsy. “I found us a new recruit, Mother.” She covered although her facial expression deemed she was mortified to have forgotten her duties. 

 

The stout woman turned around and Esmerald breathed as he took in the sight. Her pale features were practically lucid in the autumn day and framed in the weak light she was luminescent and lifeless together in some sort of interesting harmony. Her mouse brown hair was an updo in the back which fell into wispy tresses down to her shoulders and the curly wavelets framed her high set cheekbones. It was also a light shade and the roots were clearly gray. Her face was dusted with a silver white powder along the cheeks and a rouge red talcum adorned her lips. The whites of her eyes bled into the ice blue irises and were framed with black khol. Yet, despite her makeup being significantly more noticeable than anyone else in the brothel it was extremely subdued. Had she not been in such a light Esmerald had no doubts it would blend into her face and made her seem far more youthful than she did standing tall by her window. 

 

A bold dress somewhere between a burgundy and a darkened mauveine clinched at the waist with a belted corset and a golden stripe similar to that of her daughter’s contrasted sharply with the rest of her-- a glimmer of wealth in a slightly austere outfit.

 

But as she walked forward, there was a glint and sparkle on her head as Esmerald realized the source: tiny diamonds scattered about her tresses and updo in an elaborate headdress unseen beneath her hair. The effect was akin to that of several bright stars twinkling in the shadows that lurked in the study. Her slightly plain gown quivered with light in thin strands as it became lear there was also a similar thread sewn into certain areas of her dress to frame her hourglass figure as she walked and her dress swayed like a curtain on ice.

 

“Well?” She prodded, focusing on the boy who still stood in the shadows as Cerise slid to the wall and out of the way. “Come on. I’m not going to bite you.”

 

Esmerald shot a look to Cerise, who in response let her eyes shift to her mother as if to tell him to just go along with it. Taking a breath, he walked further into the room until the woman held up a hand. 

 

“What was that?”

 

The gypsy boy’s brows knitted. “What do you--”

 

“Your walking. It’s nowhere near confident.” She began to pace as her motions mimicked the circling of a shark with its prey. Esmerald felt his heartbeat speed up dramatically as he immediately felt the urge to correct his posture. His back arched the opposite direction. “But,” She eyed his back through the thin fabric of his poets shirt. “We can surely fix that.”

 

Though his eyes remained fixated on his hazy reflection in the mirror, he could see the madame shoot a look to her daughter. Paige had been correct, it seemed. She certainly wasn’t in a good mood.

 

“Please hold out your arm.” She commanded. So she wasn’t above using manners. Esmerald compiled, stretching out his left arm. She rounded him twice before pouncing, rolling up his sleeve and petting the tawny flesh as it stretched thin around his bones. “You’re a gypsy, aren’t you?”

 

He gulped, wishing he’d thought of a response to that question in his time alone with her daughter. The boy’s luminescent green eyes trained on her aging features as she studied his lanky appendage. “Does it matter?”  

 

“What kind of a question is that?” She countered as her fingers trailed up and squeezed his bicep. “I simply like to know a bit more about my applicants.”

 

“And if I were one would you throw me out?”

 

At this her gaze hardened into an icy glare as she stared at him and he tried his best to remain stoic when inside he shrunk. “There’s something you should know about working here.” She gently rolled his sleeve back down to his wrist and buttoned the cuff. “Do you see my daughter?”

 

“Yes.” He turned his head to Cerise.

 

“And does she look like me at all?”

 

He blinked and bit his lip, completely unsure what to say. “Come on. Be honest.” She stood back up and placed her hands behind her back. “Candor helps to clear confusion.” 

 

He shook his head. The madame smiled in a sly, almost knowing manner. “I want you to listen to me very carefully and understand what I say because I will not say it again.” She paced towards the fireplace and looked at a shadowy portrait which hung on the wall of a figure whom Esmerald didn’t recognize. “Whatever you’ve experienced out there in this world, you’re in a different place now. Somewhere where what is normal or pious in society is entirely abnormal here. We will not tolerate cruelty or rudeness in this brothel and society likes to happily remind us of this fact. Yvette, Judith, Chantel--” She cut herself off as her voice cracked. “Some simply cannot take the life this job is packaged with and some are targeted out of spite. And I’m weary of hiring someone who I know nothing about.

 

However,” She found her voice again. “I established this building as a sanctuary-- and one more powerful and forgiving than any church or cathedral. Those who come in will be greeted with open arms, and to those who last and persevere…” She seemed to melt from her rigidness a bit. “This can be a place of miracles, so long as you are willing to test your limits. I’ve always said: you never know your limits until you’ve worked like we do.”

 

She turned back around and started towards Esmerald until she towered over the fourteen year old at one head higher than him. “As I said, we don’t discriminate like those who call themselves pious. We are not masquerading to gain something you could offer. Your kind have found refuge here when they learn to bend to the wind. But that being said acceptance of your exterior we can grant immediately. What lies beneath is for you to determine and trust me when I tell you you will be worked harder than you’ve probably ever worked before. You’ll start early and end the day late. You’ll be exhausted, annoyed, want to lash out at me and at others. You will be pushed the brink of what you think you can do here and told to leap off the edge with gusto because you chose this life. And don’t, even for a second, doubt your confidence in your abilities.” She paced back towards the window. “If you do, there’s nothing I can do to help you survive. In time, however, you could find yourself better off than you ever could’ve imagined. Rich and comfortable beyond all your wildest dreams. Now,” She rounded on the gypsy boy a final time. “I’m going to give you two choices.” She stood before him as he nodded, the room in total silence with the exception of the crackling fireplace. 

 

“You can agree to start out at the bottom. You’ll be cleaning, helping Paige in the kitchen, and collecting general serving tips here and there. You’ll pay the small room and board fee up front and food will be provided as well as a small stipend to save or spend as you please. As time goes on you’ll learn the tricks of the trade-- dancing, costume, performing in the evenings for the customers before they’re bedded.”

 

“And by entertain, you mean…?”

 

“Strictly nonsexual. Even I can tell you’re a minor so don’t try and lie to me. When I deem you ready you can practice things as you wish and we’ll cross that bridge when it comes. For the immediate future you’d be doing things like burlesque and pole dancing. It’ll rile up the customers for Luc, seeing what they could get through a vision of you… when you’re ready of course.” 

 

“And when will I be ready?” He pressed.

 

“As I said before, when I deem you to be. You’ll be mentored by Luc and the girls throughout-- and trust me,” She patted his shoulder. “You’ve got a long way to go in arm strength before you can dance like we do.”

 

“So this is one option.” The gypsy stated as the madame nodded. “And what’s the second one?”

 

The proprietor hardened a bit, her left hand coiling into a fist, but her tone was kept perfectly level. “If this life isn’t one for you and you’re sure of that now, then Cerise will escort you out the door and Buford will drop you off at the outskirts of town before nightfall with a meal from Paige. You’d be free to go.”

 

He narrowed his eyes. “And what if I want to quit after I take your offer?” 

 

Her voice seemed to pucker a bit at his mention of leaving. “We may be an accepting place but failure is not an option here. You can refuse to partake in what we teach but rest assured it will be hell if you think we’re going to coddle you with a second chance. Desperation can drive a person to do things they never would’ve dared doing-- but if you try to tell me you’ve had second thoughts you’re a coward and will be treated as such. I can offer no assistance if you choose to give up, kid. Once you do, you’re out the door.”

 

“And on my own again?” He questioned. 

 

“With nothing. That is, of course, unless you’re one of those glass half full types. You probably had nothing before,” She mused. “It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to some.”

 

He wanted to refute her claim. He  _ had _ had something before this morning and before he’d been alone again. Izaak was everything a parent should’ve been and his life had been perfect before he’d even realized it was over. But this town and wherever he chose next wouldn’t offer something like this again. Nothing but cold nights in dark alleys begging for scraps and feeling the swelling pain of an empty stomach and rejection. Optimism had gotten him nowhere in this world and he’d rarely had the opportunity to feed it.

 

But this? This was practically a dream come true and he could already see it. There was nothing out there for him, no one waiting, nothing to keep him attached until now.

 

And yet what was there for him here, of all places? He would almost certainly never be able to take something like prostitution seriously in its most basic form. He lacked the maturity and the desire to give himself away like that to anyone right now-- much less a stranger who was paying for it. 

 

But until then… what was the harm?

 

“This is not a decision most make likely. So if you need time to think about it, we can--”

 

“I’ll do it.” He answered quickly with a nod. A small silence precluded a taken aback grin.

 

“Good. I don’t believe we’ve been formally introduced.” The older woman extended her hand. 

 

He instinctively reached out to shake it but Cerise shot him a look. He hesitated as the madame raised her eyebrow expectantly. His thoughts clicked and the gypsy slowly bowed as gracefully as he could muster and planted a small kiss upon the back of her hand.

 

“Angélique de Barthélemy.” She answered to his gesture as he raised his head up to look at her. 

 

“Esmerald, Madame.” He flashed a smirk. He looked over at Cerise, sharing her confident grin as he righted his posture.  

 

He was going to do just fine here.


End file.
